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Chapter Text

Dumbledore had been wrong. Oh, so very wrong.

If Harry could get his hands on a time-turner now, one powerful and illegal enough to take him back to the Astronomy tower, he would give the old wizard the final push himself. Hell, he would use his own hands and forgo a wand.
It is a bitter feeling to acknowledge that maybe, likely, he had been on the wrong side of the war. Like bile and acid, the epiphany rose from the pits of his stomach and left Harry shaking. Or perhaps it was the pain that caused the tremors in his fingers as he gripped the unfamiliar wand in his aching hand.

“Please, please work for me”, Harry begged the scuffed wand. “Alohomora”.

Faint sparks trickled from the end, the dogwood hummed cautiously, reluctantly in his desperate grip. As though it begrudgingly allowed him access to its powers, only because he had caught it on a good day. Or perhaps because it was lonely.

Harry wouldn’t consider himself a master of wandless magic, but Ginny and the kids had been impressed, nonetheless. He had been proficient enough to navigate the muggle world without risking his wand being seized. Lucky too, since he was certain it still lay carefully tucked within the safe behind the living room painting. The one with a muggle rendition of Hogwarts during a warm summer day. Gray clouds were forming in the far corners, foreboding a cooling summer storm.

Today though, he was unable to cast as much as a wandless warming charm. His bones too tired and his body weak from lack of nourishment. They hadn’t been starved, no not technically. But the food held as much valuable nutrition as wet cardboard paper and tasted the same.

Harry thanked his lucky stars that he could feel his magic coursing through him at all. The void of his quarters had been a painful ache in his chest, a hole left behind as the magic was ripped from his ribcage. It had caused him to vomit the first few weeks within it. Now it left him numb.

He did not know who this wand had belonged to, or how long it had been away from its rightful owner. Harry had stolen it as it had been one of many unassuming wands that were locked away to collect dust. It had escaped the brute sawing and probing the more eye-catching wands found themselves subjected to.

“Alohomora”, Harry whispered under his breath. Again, a faint trickling of sparks, a crackling that made Harry’s tense body jump, but the curious door didn’t budge. It was locked with muggle magic; it had no lock or latch that Harry could identify. That particular issue shouldn’t cause a problem with his magic, the door should respond. His time among muggles had accustomed Harry to the way magic and technology counteracted, yet his efforts slid off without as much as a rattle.

Reluctantly, he lowered his wand and pressed a careful hand against the door. Something tingled across the surface of his skin, akin to ward or an electrical field preventing his magic to grab a hold of the mechanisms inside and opening for Harry. The current became uncomfortable in its intensity, like hundreds of pinpricks needling his palm, and Harry pulled back his hand before it got burned.

He studied the box to the side of the door. Black with a screen in the middle, no buttons. Harry had heard, and seen on occasion, of touchscreens. They had become a popular feature on the iPhone James had been begging him and Ginny for. Those screens were to become the only way to control a mobile in the future. Harry had dearly held onto his mobile with its buttons.

This screen appeared to be a touchscreen as well. A message flashed across it, instructing him to scan his badge for entry. There were no numbers or code he could enter. He attempted an unlocking spell onto the box itself. It simply repeated its instruction. Harry swore, he was stuck.

“This far and then I’m trapped by fucking muggle technology. Should have listened to Jamie more”, he pulled his glasses from his nose and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. His dark curls hung wildly to his shoulders; he hadn’t gotten a haircut in months. Neither did he have a razor to shave. He could feel the furrow take permanent hold in between his eyebrows.

Harry had watched intently for months. This was the entrance and exit those free to leave took. He had not seen or heard of a different exit. There was no other way out of the experimentation wards.

He was readying himself to try brute force, when the clicking of heels warned him that someone was rapidly approaching. Foreboding disaster, the footsteps echoed across the hall, raising Harry’s heartrate in the growing sense of anticipation.

Harry turned wildly to take in his surroundings, to look around for anything he could use to hide himself. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his body, his mind was slowed, as though his thoughts were running through gold-brown honey. He scanned the light blue walls for a nook, the doorframes spanning the hallway, spinning frantically in a circle.

His eyes were drawn to a mural, a frenetic explosion of colors and shapes, an ironic parallel to Harry’s turmoil and internal distress. He stood there, momentarily lost in the vivid chaos before him, wondering how he could use it to his advantage. Realizing Hermione would have been mortified by his lapse in mental acuity, he resisted the temptation to smack his own forehead in chastise. As he stood, caught between the vibrant spectacle and the weight of his thoughts, Harry couldn't help but wonder if he had outgrown the days of successful heists and thrilling adventures.

With a hushed incantation, Harry carefully invoked a disillusionment charm, his wand responding with a hesitant zing that resonated through the silence. As the subtle magic began to weave around him, he nestled himself against the cool glass. Unsure of the charm's reliability, he positioned himself amidst the chaotic backdrop, hoping the busyness would serve as a distraction in case any shimmer escaped the concealment.

It was just in time, as a young blonde woman turned the nearby corner, her curls lightly brushing a clipboard she was intently studying. Her white lab coat a sharp contrast to the red heels she was wearing daily. She bore a resemblance to Dr. Harley Quinn, the muggle cartoon character the boys frequently watched on the telly. Just as pretty, though well-mannered and kind. That is if you turned a blind eye to her questionable employment within the ward.

Dr. Curie, engrossed in her papers, didn’t spare a glance at the mural, entirely missing the vague outline of Harry that might have caught her eye had she been more vigilant. Her clipboard was stacked with white papers and printed black ink. No parchment or quill ink, though she had a pen tucked into the curls behind her ear. Absently, she reached for the badge holding her name tag on a delicate cord around her neck and pressed it against the box, slightly askew. With a hiss, the door opened, revealing a chamber, like a windowless tunnel, one that lead to yet another door mirroring the first.

The Doctor stepped through, and Harry trailed quietly, cursing himself for not having had the foresight to cast a muffling charm. Amidst the quiet hum of electricity and the clacking of the Doctor’s shoes, a whispered spell would stand out conspicuously.

In a mere breath, Harry realized his error in following her into the chamber. He hurriedly turned around, trying to slip through the closing door noiselessly, but failed to do so in time before the two halves shut tightly like a seal.

An immediate void enveloped him—an oppressive, pulling sensation inducing nausea deep within. His magic persisted, not gone but out of reach, akin to anesthesia numbing every sense of a limb. Present yet unresponsive, like an elusive phantom. The concealment spell, once within his control, dissipated abruptly, as if subjected to a sweeping Finite Incantatem.

This was an excellent time for a panic attack, Harry’s body seemed to decide. His breathing turned labored, and he anticipated the moment Dr. Curie noticed his presence close to her. In a flurry, she pivoted, her clipboard clutched to her chest with one arm. Her surprised eyes locked onto his, widened in shock and her gasp echoed through the chamber. His subsequent breath caught in his throat, his brain momentarily short-circuiting—an excuse he'd focus on later.

“Harry!”, her exclamation shattered the oppressive silence and her fingers grasped for a gun concealed inconspicuously to her waistband. Having witnessed what this muggle device could do, Harry knew would have to use the mere seconds he had left. Taking a hasty stumble forward, his eyes slipped from her hand at the holster to her panic-stricken face. She swore when her trembling hand slipped on the leather of her holster and with bated breath stared at Harry’s wand approaching, pointed directly at her. He stared down into her hazel eyes, watched his own reflection in her dilated pupils and within a blink of his own, the rough wood of the wand was traveling through connective tissue and bone and instantly he had the urge to vomit onto the red staining lab coat.

Harry desperately held his hand flat against her screaming mouth, feverishly trying to muffle the sound of the Doctor’s agony. Bright red blood and a nauseating gelatinous substance dripped over his fingers. He didn’t dare look at the cavity out which the old wand protruded. And whether it was shock or if the wand had penetrated her brain, Harry did not know, but Dr. Curie sagged, all life draining from her body as the blood seeped into the white fabric and onto the floor.

Harry anticipated remorse, yet all that surged within him was the pounding of his heart against his chest, the cold sweat in his neck, and his wild curls sticking to his skin. He slowly lowered the body to the floor and prayed to Merlin that no one had heard the incident. He tried to quiet the frantic puffs of air burning in and out of his lungs, to no avail.

Disgust rolled through his stomach, with one hand he tugged and roughly withdrew the shiny, slick wand from Dr. Curie’s eye. The wand would despise him forever.

“God. Pull yourself together”, Harry wiped the sticky blood off, leaving streaks of bright red along the powder blue pants he wore. An almost refreshing spot of color after months of sterility, if it weren’t so grotesque.

Harry remembered to take off the Doctor’s nametag from around her neck, carefully lifting her limp head and gently placing it back down, wanting to show one last sign of respect to the deceased. Her head lulled, closed eye facing the wall.

Harry turned away reluctantly and made to inspect the name tag. He recognized the muggle technology that was imbued into the simple plastic, Harry had kept a similar keycard at his job, at a muggle gym teaching soccer to underserved youth. A microchip was what had granted entrance and exit out of the facility. Now it would hopefully grant him exit out of the wards rather than back in.

Once again, Harry's attention was drawn to the small black box positioned beside the next set of doors. Acting swiftly, he mimicked Curie's actions, holding the tag against it. To his relief, the door smoothly slid open with a subtle hiss, granting him access to a second empty hallway. One side terminated at a milk glass window, offering a glimpse into nothingness, while the other seemed to culminate in a dead-end. No further exits were discernible; only extended rows of pristine white walls, illuminated by clinical white light, and linoleum flooring boasting a dizzying pattern that could captivate one's gaze for a sheer endless duration. Harry knew, he had spent hours tracing patterns and getting lost in the dizzying array of it when nothing else could offer him distraction.

As panic surged within him, Harry made to turn towards the dead-end. Hope flickered that perhaps there was a charm on the wall, akin to the one by the Leaky. Or maybe there was another black box and a door in the wall he couldn’t see yet. One single, tentative step was all he managed. The warning bell was shrill like the cry of a siren, meant to pierce your mind and shatter your eardrums; he could feel it deep within his bones.
“Of course,” Harry chastised himself, his heart clenching of fear. “It couldn’t have been that easy. As if one murder wasn’t enough.”

He made another step toward the dead end when from the far corner, on the wall running along his side, a white door slid open with a warning hiss. Whether it was the panic, or the bright lighting that had kept Harry from recognizing it, he did not know. But the relief of having found the exit lasted just as long as three doctors jogged through it just as the siren ceased ringing. On their heels was a guard, hands poised with a gun instantly aimed at its target: Harry.

In a split second, Harry contemplated his options, the honey clouding his mind having dissipated at the rush of adrenaline. It was either die by the gun, die by a scalpel, or die jumping through the window. With little hesitation, he opted for the latter option, swiftly twisting on his naked heels and making a beeline for the window.

“You! Stop!”, came the shrill cry of the guard. “I’ll shoot ya!”

Bracing himself, Harry wrapped both arms around his head as he sprinted toward the glass. Through the sanded surface, he thought he could discern the grey of a Parkhouse, perhaps a sliver of sky. Although the obscured view prevented him from confirming, the prospect of glimpsing the sky after months of windowless isolation made him consider that death might be worth it. How long had it been? Harry had lost track of the passing time.

He launched himself against the window, and, to no surprise at all, bounced right off. Pain shot through his aching arms; old wounds popped open. The glass showed not even a crack.

“Ya're a stupid one, aren’t ya?” bellowed the guard over Harry’s shoulder. Filled with desperation, Harry spun around, wielding the stolen wand. His pursuers, apparently dense themselves, immediately retreated, overlooking the fact that Harry’s magical abilities were incapacitated. In this vacuum of numbness, he still had no access to magic.

“Drop that, lad, or I will shoot ya”, but the guard’s voice waivered traitorously. It didn’t comfort Harry. Scared and desperate people made impulsive decisions, like killing doctors who had shown them some kindness.

Yet Harry wouldn't scrutinize the gifted opportunity, choosing instead to capitalize on the slight advantage until everyone regained their senses and recognized how overwhelmingly outnumbered and outpowered he was. He willed his hand not to tremble as he aimed his wand directly at the guard.

“Leave me be. I will kill you all with one spell if you don’t”, he demonstratively swayed the wand. The doctors shrank away, leaving the guard to protect them. Either the guard was new, which was a possibility as Harry didn’t recognize him, or he was suffering from early onset Parkinson’s, for he twitched once, and his finger triggered the weapon.

Faster than a spell, the bullet hurtled toward Harry. Later, he would ponder whether he could have conjured a Protego even if he had access to his magic, but truthfully, he harbored his doubts. The notion had barely even registered before a searing pain tore through his shoulder, to the left of his lung. He was thrown backwards into the window, his bones crunched ominously. His head bounced painfully off the glass, and he twisted around to cradle his injured shoulder.

It was the gasp of one of the Doctors that fractionally pulled him out of his shock. As he lifted his throbbing head, a scurry began. Simultaneous footsteps raced towards him just as he noticed the spiderweb to his left.

His thoughts were mulled, his body numb – a concussion he assumed blearily.

“What a weird spider,” Harry stared at it uncomprehendingly. The spider was white, sitting in the middle of its web. Footsteps thundered as he reached out and touched it. The spider bit his finger and startled, he pulled away. A fresh drop of blood swelled from a fresh cut.

Cut, not bite. That thought pulled Harry out of his trance.

The window had shattered when the bullet had gone through his shoulder and pierced the glass. Long cracks had splintered the milky surface. He could vaguely make out the other side.
Harry scrambled up to his feet and used his fist to strike the web. He connected with the glass at one and the same time as the guard reached Harry and tackled him.
With a high-pitched crack, the glass shattered. Harry and the guard were sent careening out of the window.

The vacuum was disrupted. At once the magic flowed back into him, tingling like needle pricks, as if his limbs had fallen asleep and finally awoken. Harry gripped the wand so tightly it hurt and as he wrapped himself in his magic, Harry readied himself for a significant jump.

He had no time to consider where he was apparating to. Harry’s mind screamed home, his body for safety. And too late did he realize he would be going nowhere.
Anti-apparition wards kept him securely plummeting to his death, the guard screaming relentlessly into his ear.

He plead to the Gods for forgiveness, hoping they would see that he had no other choice. Beseeched Magic herself to grant him one last gift. For her to allow him to escape and he would never ask for a drop of magic again if she so demanded. Harry twisted around, an apology slipping from his lips and forced the guard to fall first. Then he gathered every ounce of magic he had left and ripped through the wards blindly. He could have sworn he heard a sickening crunch just as the nauseating darkness warped him away.

Yet, before he could fathom the significance of the sound, his body was torn apart and an agony like none he had experienced before shot through his left arm before he crashed into the hard ground chest first.

He heard a scream shred through the air. One of a wounded animal nearing death. And registered numbly that it was his own voice escaping his throat.
Harry sobbed, grabbing thoughtlessly for his shoulder. Hot flesh greeted his searching fingers and his empty stomach heaved when bile rose up and splattered the gravel of the path before him.

Harry tried to breathe, to slow down, to think before he would bleed out right here on the ground. With difficulty, he tore his eyes from the flesh and blood to his left and searched aimlessly for a clue on where he had landed.

Everything was blurry, he could make out a vague dark form of a building against greens of hedges and a grey sky. Slowly, he fumbled for his glasses, which he found had fallen just a few inches away and clumsily pushed them onto his face. One glass was missing, the other had a crack.

It took his brain a few seconds to adjust, but then a familiar sight registered. One he hadn’t seen in nearly thirteen years.

Trading one nightmare for another, Harry thought, before his mind went numb and his senses bled out away from him. He didn’t feel the gravel digging into his raw skin.

Chapter Text

The initial indication of trouble arrived with the erratic tingling in the Manor’s ward. Someone had been thick enough to try and apparate directly onto the Manor’s grounds and was unceremoniously dumped before the gate.

The second was the turmoil among the House elves. Pippy appeared with a resounding crack, startling Draco who had been trying to recognize the magical energy that had tried to breach his home, it felt familiar to the wards.

“Master Draco, Sir, there be a wounded wizard! He be bleeding, Master Draco, soon dead!”, she cried, the delicate fabric of her lilac dress crumpling under the force of her clenched fists, her hands in a wringing motion that mirrored the distress etched across her face.

“Do we know who it is?” She refused to respond with a small shake of her head, eyes bulging wild and fearful.

Draco commanded her to speak when she didn’t provide more details. She remained silent, but her hands moved from her dress to her ears, pulling violently in her effort to defy, to keep a secret she didn’t want to tell him. Like a child, obviously omitting crucial information.

“Who, Pippy, is it?”

His voice made her tremble. Draco reminded himself of his father, the thought making his stomach roll, but he refrained from giving into the urge to apologize. It would only destress the House-elf more.

“Harry Potter. Master Draco, Sir,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

“Sir, it be Harry Potter!” Pippy cried out as though he had hit her.

“Dear Salazar”, he breathed. That was a name he hadn’t heard in nearly half a decade. Lost to the muggle world, Potter had disappeared and left chaos behind, when the wizarding world had needed their hero the most.

And now? He was dying in front of Draco Malfoy’s iron wrought gate.

“Merlin, they will be blaming me for his death! Pippy, bring him here. This instance, if you could.” Sweat broke out on Draco’s forehead. He pulled the red pocket square from his suit to dab at it. The silk not meant for such a use, but he couldn’t care less for propriety in this moment.

Pippy had snapped away and reappeared within the blink of an eye with a bleeding, mangled Harry Potter in tow.

The man lay unconsciously and limp on the floor. A horrible splinch seemed to have nearly separated his left arm from his shoulder. The bone was split clean and white among the red blood and flesh. He looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backward, or better perhaps, a meatgrinder.

It was a gruesome injury to behold, and Draco wanted to vomit. Flashes from 6th year came to mind, the blood riveling the Sectumsempra massacre by Potter’s own wand. But there were other horrid wounds that covered the body. A crisscrossing of cuts and mangled flesh covered Potter’s arms, old and new scars forming a web across his hands and wrists. Blood gushed from a hole by the wizard’s left shoulder. He would be bleeding to death within minutes like this.

“Oh Gods,” Draco’s breath escaped him. “Oh dear Gods! Pippy, call for Astoria. Immediately!”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he levitated the unconscious man, who whined in his sleeping state, across the hall and onto the table of the formal dining room. Draco was too afraid to apparate or carry Potter any further in the state he was in.

He needed a doctor, a surgeon most definitely, to put the damaged shell of his body back together. Dittany for the scars, although most were beyond saving. Whatever Potter had gotten into, he would be carrying those marks with him forever.

“Salazar, what did you do? I thought you had escaped the war, not moved onto the next one”, he shook his head in grief as he ran from the room to his potion’s lab. He would need to use most of what he had in stock.

“This is what I have these for,” he tried to assure himself, as anxiety at the depleting stock threatened to swallow him. “Well, perhaps not so I can save Potter’s life, but how else would the Fates play with me.” He ground his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping painfully.

Draco ran back to the room just as the floo flared to life and a harried looking Astoria stumbled through. Her usually flawless green robes covered in soot.

“Pippy said you were dying!” She cried out as she spotted Draco.

“Not me! Potter is!” He didn’t stop and continued on to the dining room. Draco hurried to deposit the potions he had grabbed near Potter’s head, careful to avoid any blood.

“What?!” the witch stood as though she had been stupefied. Her brown eyes wide and disbelieving.

“Harry Potter. Move it, for Salazar’s sake, or he will die!” Draco ground out. Now was not the time for the brilliant witch to pretend to be obtuse.

“Draco Malfoy! WHAT, in Merlin’s name, did you DO?” She screeched; however, she rushed to his side. Draco thanked his lucky stars. He didn’t reward the accusation with an answer, there would be plenty of time for it after Potter was no longer closer to the dead than living.

“Stop the bleeding of the smaller cuts, I will focus on this monstrous splinch”, Astoria pulled up her sleeves and cast practiced cleaning and sterilization spells over Potter and themselves. Like an afterthought, the mediwitch activated monitoring charms. Faintly, the sound of Potter’s heartrate galloped through the room. Surely, it would soon trip over itself. Draco feared his heartrate much matched that of Potter’s.

Astoria stepped closer to the splinch and her face drained of color when she noticed the protruding bone. She summoned the sleeping drought and pain potions and uncorked both bottles with practiced ease.

“We don’t want him to wake up for this”, she mumbled as she tipped Potter’s limp head back and poured the liquids between his pale lips. Gently, she massaged his throat and encouraged his unconscious body to swallow. Draco prayed she’d stop the bleeding next.

“We’ll need skeleton grow and a blood replenisher. Two, on second thought”, Draco handed her the potions, and summoned a clean cloth and a bowl of warm water.

In his shakiness, the water splashed, leaving a wet spot on the hardwood floor. Hopefully, Draco prayed absently, that wouldn’t damage the polish. He dipped the cloth in the water and wringed out the excess. Delicately, he wiped away dried and new blood. The water instantly turned a sickening pink as he dipped the cloth back in and repeated the process with care. This would take several bowls of water, he mused.

Draco tried to ignore the crunching of Astoria resetting Potter’s arm and spelling the flesh back together. He refused to look at what he assumed was a bullet hole, or at the blood that had started to escape the table’s surface and joined the spilled water. Now it would most definitely ruin the polish.

Methodically, he kept wiping at the cuts on Potter’s arm. Draco feverishly implored his heart to slow down, for the churning of his stomach to stop. He may be a revered strategist for the King, but he became near useless to the cause at the sight of blood. An embarrassment to wizard kind and his spouse surely as well.

Astoria seemed to sense his dilemma. “Please, Darling, don’t pass out now. I need an assistant and I can’t care for you both”. A stern look was thrown into his direction. Her beautiful eyes calculating and the faintest of lines along her forehead deepening. “Take a breath”.

“Through your mouth, you moron!” Draco had failed to anticipate the coppery scent in the air when he had filled his lungs through his nose. He retched and made the mistake of gripping the edge of the table, reaching directly into the cooling blood Potter was still losing rapidly.

“Merlin, I’m going to kill him”, he gasped.

“Yeah, please don’t”, Astoria snapped. “Scourgify”. Her hands and wand were working feverishly. If Draco had watched, he would have seen the wounds slowly clotting. Flesh knitted itself back together under her administrations.

“That certainly was not a one-person job”, Astoria’s breath came heavy and labored. She had slid down to the ground, her back braced against the china cabinet. Her brown curls had escaped her usually careful twist on the nape of her neck.

“I was under the impression that it hadn’t been”, Draco sourly motioned towards himself.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for applying the dittany. Couldn’t have done that myself.”

She was lucky he was so fond of her, Draco thought. Now that the blood was gone and Potter was safely wrapped in white bandages, he allowed himself to take in the pitiful picture Potter made.

The decade had certainly left its mark, Potter looked far from the boy that had defeated the Dark Lord. With faint lines forming on his forehead, his scar still as present as it always had been, he looked to have lived a life of continuous trial. His black hair spread out like a fan around his head. Draco could have sworn he saw the occasional silver hair catch the light.

Potter sported the beard of a vagabond, and Draco hoped sincerely that it wasn’t a deliberate fashion choice. Thinking back on Potter’s horrendous wardrobe at Hogwarts, it most certainly could be. He looked unkempt, thin, and malnourished even. His bare chest was covered in spares black hair, and he could have slipped through as lean if under his pale skin his ribs weren’t dangerously prominent.

Wherever Harry Potter had come from, it hadn’t been a good place.

“Do you think it was muggles?” Astoria gave voice to his silent fear.

“The bullet hole suggests as much.” He managed to keep his voice steady. “A wizard wouldn’t use such an inhumane device”.

“Maybe they should”, she whispered cautiously.

Astoria was well aware of the King's stance on the suggestion. Draco, readily conceding the King's intelligence, recognized that age had made His Majesty less open to exploring unfamiliar territories, favoring traditional practices over muggle technology. Draco had pleaded fruitlessly during their meetings. And each time, Draco's optimism for winning the quiet war against muggles using only wands diminished even more.

“Astoria”, he admonished regardless.

“Yes, Darling?” She possessed a commendable trait of not yielding swiftly or silently; he greatly admired that about her. He chose to change the topic instead.

His eyes caught on Potter’s frail sight again.

“Perhaps we should move Potter? Being half-naked on the dining room table might surely be a tad uncomfortable for him.” He wrinkled his nose at the traces of blood he could still see and smell lingering after the most recent Scourgify.

“Certainly, a bed would aid recovery. The Blue Room or the Silver One?” She stood, her knees popping audibly as she stretched to her full height.

“The Green Room.”

She raised an eyebrow and studied him in quiet astonishment.

“The Green? That’s right next to the bedroom. Why do you want him so close? He is an enemy regardless of his current position, Draco.” Astoria shook her head. “I don’t know if I am comfortable with that.”

“Love, that is my decision to make.” Draco reminded her, calm authority in his voice. “I want him close because he could take a turn for the worst any moment. I am not risking him dying in our home”.

Astoria scrunched her nose in displeasure, but seemingly obliged to his wish and readied her wand to levitate Potter through the halls.

It was a precarious hike through the manor. Draco and Astoria took great care to avoid any collision between Potter’s body and the ornamental railings on the grand staircase.
On one of the upper levels, they guided him jointly through the sitting room, passing the open French doors leading to the main bedroom, until they reached the adjacent Green Room. It wasn’t meant for guests; they had crafted their private space in such a fashion that perhaps one day they would expand their family and welcome children. Though until then, Potter would have to make do with the lack of privacy the joint sitting room afforded.

The lush forest green curtains gracefully closed on their own, and the velvety duvet effortlessly peeled away from the sheets, enabling them to gently lower Potter’s body onto the mattress.

Potter’s body laid still in the green sheets, his appearance unsettlingly sickly. The pallor of his skin was more pronounced, creating a stark contrast against the verdant backdrop. A visible crease marked his forehead, and the corners of his lips were downturned, as though he was in pain despite the near overdose of potions coursing through his system.

As Draco observed him, a wave of déjà vu swept over him. The man’s current state reminded him of the aftermath of the war during their 8th year. Back then, he had seen Potter withdrawn and immersed in grief, burdened by the sacrifices the war had exacted from him. The memory lingered, casting a somber shadow over Draco and guilt surged up within him like a vice, twisting his stomach mercilessly.

He thought he had forgiven himself over time. But though he himself could not regret the choices he had made, the Chosen One would condemn him if he knew what Draco had been up to since Potter had left.

Potter had spoken for Draco at his trials. He had been the reason why Mother and he had served community service and no harsher sentence. And then, Draco had undone so much only a few months later, as though the battle had been a forgotten memory.

No, it hadn’t been forgotten. And it hadn’t been at random either. Draco had his reasons for what he had done, he knew it. He had agonized over his options for months before the ritual had taken place. Though explaining that to Potter, who had given up nearly everything and everyone to achieve the wizarding world’s peace – that would be an insurmountable task.

Draco twirled the unfamiliar wand in his fingers. Pippy had found it a few meters from an unconscious Potter, scratched by use and the fine gravel.

It was carved from dogwood, certainly not Potter’s own wand. He wondered where the man had left his own and what may have caused him to steal another’s. Hesitantly, he tucked the wand into his pocket, determined to return it to the Savior once he was certain he wouldn’t try and unceremoniously hex his bollocks off.

With one last look back, Draco followed Astoria out of the rooms.

“Will you stay for supper, or are you heading back to St. Mungo’s?” He didn’t hold his breath. Supper was usually a lonely affair for him nowadays. Perhaps Potter would be a pleasant enough distraction once he got over murdering Draco for his betrayal. One could hope at least.

“St. Mungo’s”, she kissed his cheek fleetingly. “I’m sorry, Darling. This is the longest I could stay away.”

She cleaned her robes thoroughly and redid the knot in her hair. Within the blink of an eye, she looked as though she had been over for lunch and not to stitch back together the missing Chosen One of the Wizarding World.

“I placed some monitoring charms on him, I will be alerted as soon as something goes wrong, and I will be back in a few hours. Let me know when he wakes.“ She assured Draco, waving a hand towards the upstairs. “Do not worry about him, Draco, he will be fine”.

“Who said I am worried for him?”

She gave him a sideway glance, exasperation written in the corners of her lips. Draco had to acknowledge it was a ridiculous statement, he had stated as such just half an hour prior, but his pride did not allow to back down. He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow expectedly.

“Mhmmm”, she wisely hummed. Her eyes expertly concealed the eyeroll, but the silent expression of exasperation was clear as day.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up slowly, in a warm and soft sort of daze. The tendrils of sleep did not want to let go of him yet and it took an enormous effort to open his eyes. He felt as though he was still navigating through the thick fog of dreams.

The surroundings revealed themselves in darkness, suggesting the late hours of the night. There was a tempting suggestion to surrender to the lull of sleep. Wait until morning at least.

Yet a persistent sense of unease tugged at Harry's consciousness, urging him to resist the comforting embrace of slumber.

Instinctively, he reached out to his left, feeling about for his glasses on the nightstand, a sudden jolt of pain shot from his left shoulder, stealing his breath. An involuntary cry escaped his lips, breaking the last remnants of sleep and plunging him into disorienting wakefulness.

Dread descended like a crashing wave, panic tightening its grip around Harry's throat, rendering him unable to swallow as his mouth went dry. The events of the previous day flooded his mind—recollections of where he had been, what he had done, and the unsettling realization of where he was now.

His fight-or-flight response roared within himself; the urge to run, to apparate away, warred with the desire to find Malfoy and rip him apart.

Harry tried to calm his mind, inhaling sharply through his nose and releasing the breath slowly through parched, chapped lips. The rhythm of his breath served as a lifeline, a tether to the present moment.

He carefully twisted around, grimacing at the pain and reached for his glasses that indeed laid folded on the nightstand. In utter disbelief, Harry stared at the glasses on the nightstand. He could have sworn they had suffered damage in the chaos of the previous day, yet as he examined them, they appeared unscathed. The lenses remained free of scratches, and the frame showed no signs of cracks or dents. It was as if they had been magically restored to their pristine condition since he had last seen them.

Which was a likely conclusion, though who would bother to fix something of his with such precision?

With a single hand, he perched them on his nose and wearily surveyed his surroundings. The room was shrouded in darkness, yet it was evidently not nighttime. Luxurious, velvety curtains thwarted most daylight, allowing only the faintest stray sunrays to filter through. The walls were adorned with ornate, dark green wallpaper featuring intricate designs of little snakes and vines engaged in a dance. The furniture, fashioned from dark wood, was scattered sparingly but tastefully throughout the room. The bed where Harry lay was positioned in the room's center, crafted from the same dark wood, adorned with rich green sheets and curtains, pulled back with silk ropes.

Ginny would have wrinkled her freckled nose at that, her disdain for dark academia evident in her colorful, maximalist apartment. Pain, this time of grief, threatened to suffocate him. For the first time in weeks tears welled up in the corner of his eyes. Angrily, he wiped them away with his good hand.

From the doors, a pointed cough echoed through the room, causing Harry to jolt upright. He felt a twinge, as though he had pulled a new stitch, but he would refuse to admit to any weakness and let the pain show. He quickly reached around for his wand, only to come up empty handed. Neither his wand, nor the wand he had “borrowed” was close. Not even a wandless summoning charm proved futile. Harry cursed vividly under his breath.

“Do not worry, I have your wand right here. Though an interesting choice. Dogwood.” Malfoy, tall and unconcerned, leaned against the frame and twirled the wand idly between his long fingers.

Harry seethed; he would have no chance at fighting, at exacting revenge on Malfoy in a wandless state. Though his strength was returning, it was nowhere near a condition where he could confront the threat Malfoy posed.

“Hand it back, Malfoy” He spat, venom saturating his voice as he said the other’s name. While they might have been on a first-name basis once, Malfoy's betrayal had forever shattered any chance of returning to a friendly manner. Malfoy was destined to be his rival and enemy forever, he resolved.

“I will in due time. I don’t intend to keep this…wag”. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy’s laugh was hushed, almost nervous. Old habits resurfacing quickly, he observed his opponent’s stance to assess his advantages.

It was an attempt to convey confidence and calmness, yet the light tapping of his foot, the clenched hand gripping the crook of his wand arm, gave Malfoy away. Harry could have sworn he saw his fingers gripping the wand shake faintly, but in the distance and sparse lighting, he couldn’t be sure.

Fear? Was Malfoy afraid of Harry? It seemed incredibly improbable, given the advantages stacked high in his favor. So, for what reason, in Merlin’s name, was Malfoy displaying clear signs of nervousness?

Harry extended his hand toward Malfoy, palm up, waiting expectantly.

To his infuriation, Malfoy let out a quick, dismissive laugh. “Not now, obviously, Potter. I will return it to you once you are in a healthier state, both body and mind.” He tucked the wand away. “For now, you will have to make do with what you have.” A brief, contemplative pause.
“Though I hope you will behave civilly, as a guest in my home.” He continued on. “I mean you no harm. And neither does any inhabitant of the manor”. Harry missed the careful and fractional pause at “inhabitant”, failing to recognize it as a warning when he seethed in his own anger.

Harry snorted, devoid of any humor. “A guest, in the manor that housed and helped resurrect Voldemort. Certainly. I will make myself fucking comfortable.” Once more, Harry found himself surprised by Malfoy. The man from his memories would have recoiled at the mere mention of the Dark Lord's name. Yet now, Malfoy showed no outward reaction, his gaze unyielding, devoid of any lingering fear.

“Time will show, dear Potter, but I promise you now that you are here to recover. Not to suffer further. Why in Merlin’s name would I go through the trouble of healing you and housing you if I wanted to watch you hurt again?”

Harry remained silent, refusing to answer the question. He couldn't shake off the suspicion, entertaining various sadistic tactics that might explain Malfoy's seemingly benevolent act of healing and bandaging him.

Instead, he looked down at himself for the first time since putting on his glasses. Embarrassment washed over him as he realized that his torso was naked, covered only in white bandages from his left shoulder to his elbow, the arm cradled in a loose sling. The telltale smell of dittany lingered in the air; they had treated his wounds on his hands and arms. Many scars remained, the older, deeper ones. However, the ones from yesterday were healed entirely without as much as a trace.

“A day ago, I killed two people," Harry mumbled, burying his face in his uninjured elbow.

"Four," Malfoy corrected, helpfully and devoid of the humorous tone of a minute ago.

"What?! Four?" Harry’s heart sped to an unhealthy gallop, nausea at the implication twisted deep within his stomach. What had he done?

"That happened four days ago; you were asleep for almost a week." Malfoy cocked his head to the side as though he was wondering how serious Harry’s concussion truly was.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry could only respond, pressing his hand against his chest, his heart still leapt dangerously.

“Well, I don’t know. I guess I would consider that important information were I in your stead”, Malfoy wrinkled his nose, his expression morphing from concern to one of disdain.

“Not what I… It sounded like… Bloody hell. Never mind” Harry took a deep breath and at the same time his stomach made its starvation known. Months of inadequate food had left him unable to recognize the sharp pangs of hunger, but the pain now was unmistakable.

“Let’s make sure you are fed.” Malfoy clearly aware of his discomfort. “I will have Pippy bring you supper. I don’t think it would be appropriate to expect you at the table anytime soon”.

At his mention, a small house-elf appeared close to her master. She wore a proper dress with a poppy red flower pattern. Her long ears trembled as she studied Harry, and she took him by surprise when she reached out a reassurance-seeking hand, gripping Malfoy’s pant leg like a child. Harry winced, anticipating the cruel shove or kick for the house-elf’s audacity to touch her master. But all Malfoy’s hand did was indulgently pat the elf on the head.

Hermione would be beside herself, her SPEW heart crying in happiness. This wasn't reminiscent of Lucius Malfoy, who had mistreated and killed house-elves in his employ, like Dobby. Harry was aware that he was staring, but it couldn't be helped; it was a jarring sight.

“Pippy, would you kindly bring Mr. Potter lunch and a cup of tea? Maybe some treacle tart if there are any left.” Another pat on the head, and Pippy disappeared with a crack. In just a second, she reappeared next to the bed, a tray floating invitingly in front of Harry. She gazed at him reverently, as though anticipating something.

“Er, thank you very much Pippy.” He mumbled, uncomfortable under the intense stare.

“You be very welcome, Lord Harry Potter, Sir. Pippy is honored to serve the great Harry Potter, yes, she is.” She bowed deeply, her ears flopping excitedly.

“Pippy,” Malfoy admonished her, though his voice missing any of the harshness Harry would have expected. “Give Mr. Potter some space, please.”

Pippy disappeared with another deep bow.

Harry waited for Malfoy to disappear as well, to give him space, but the other man simply strode through the room and made himself comfortable in the closest lounge chair by the windows.

“It would be rude to leave my guest without polite company while he eats.” Malfoy responded to Harry’s silent question in his raised eyebrow. His posture exuded aloofness, though his foot remained tapping in a telltale display of nervousness.

With an elegant wave of his wand, Malfoy pulled back the curtains, temporarily blinding Harry with the sunlight that flooded into the room. It must be around noon, Harry concluded as he squinted his eyes. The window opened to the gardens, where rose bushes were in bloom. It was late spring, or perhaps early summer, Harry thought. He had lost track of time in the wards.

One windowpane opened, and a soft, warm gust of wind carried in the sweet scent of the roses, evoking a sickening feeling within Harry. Memories swallowed him like a tidal wave.

Through the haziness of the past, Harry helplessly watched the all too familiar scene replay in his mind; The kitchen was dim in the last light of the afternoon, they hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights yet. The scent of sweet pastries and the first roses of the season mingled in the air. His children’s laughter rang like bells through the house. It had been a game Sunday and Arsenal had lost against Wigan Athletic in a painful defeat. But Ginny had come over, a Sunday tradition after the divorce, and brought day old pastries from the bakery next door to her apartment. Lily fought with James over the Danish until Harry intervened; the fiery girl having gone for his eldest’s jugular with a wandless jinx. He would have been proud of her display of magical prowess if not five minutes later, their home would be sieged, and they would lose each other, lose Ginny forever.

Harry’s attempts to banish the haunting memories were futile; his body trembled. He realized he was gripping the tray with both hands when they hurt, knuckles white where they were not wrapped in bandages.

A touch, fleeting and featherlight, grazed his shoulder and he shrank back. Sleet gray eyes met his and narrowed in concern. Malfoy had left his seat and was crouching next to the bed, too close for comfort. Harry jerked away instinctively and snarled.

“Do not touch me,” Harry managed to press through clenched teeth. The shrug that followed shot pain through his left shoulder and knocked the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, displacing the tray and toppling a delicate teacup.

“Your fear is unnecessary, you are safe here for as long as you wish to be,” Malfoy mumbled, soothingly. Though he wisely kept his distance. “Wherever you were, you are no longer there.”

“I don’t need condolences nor company.” Harry spat with a sneer, a weak attempt at masking the vulnerability that plagued him. “Especially not from the likes of you, Malfoy.”
He spat out the name like a curse, bitter and vile. He didn’t wish for Malfoy’s company or false reassurances of safety; what he needed was to get out of this bed and find his children, wherever they were held.

“I don’t have time for a leisurely cup of tea, exchanging superficial pleasantries. I can’t stay here; My children need me; I have to find them now.” He made to move the duvet and doubled over from pain, his hands were shaking with anger, desperation, and agony. Feebleness certainly too if he had been sleeping for four days without eating. The silky fabric crinkled softly from his fingers holding onto it tightly and his jaw began to hurt as he ground his teeth. What a precarious situation he had found himself in.

Tender hands found his shoulders again, navigating cautiously around his injured left side. With a gentle touch, Malfoy nudged him upright, one hand delicately peeling Harry's fingers from the sheets. It was only then that Harry became aware of the crescent-shaped imprints etched into his palms, marking them with vivid red half-moons. His vision blurred, embarrassed he wiped away tears that had settled in the corner of his eyes.

“I think you are in no condition to go after your children today.” Malfoy nearly whispered, his voice an uncomfortably pleasant hum. “It is your duty to recuperate, and once you do, I assure you, I'll provide any necessary resources for you to locate and rescue your children. You will be of no use to them unless you eat and recover.” He pushed the tray back towards Harry and rightened the teacup that had tipped over. The flowery fragrance was comforting as Malfoy poured tea by hand.

Harry reluctantly surrendered and reached for the fork, hunger stabbing within him, and he conceded that Malfoy may have a valid point. Though it did little to quench the restlessness within him that urged him to leave the bed right this second and find James, Albus, and Lily.

He had no starting point for a search in the first place. No idea where the kids could be. Harry had kept a hopeful eye and ear out at the Ward, praying to the Gods that they would be held there as well. But he had not been so fortunate, as there was no trace or mention of them in his months there. He had begged and pleaded with the doctors. Desperation roughened his voice, indifferent over the tears he had shed and his screaming that echoed through the silent halls, when his pleas had been met with icy silence.

“Ignore him,” the muggle doctors had said to each other. “They aren’t human, they don’t feel like we do. He is trying to trick you.”
“They are like fae,” they had told newcomers with cold glints in their eyes. “They will worm their way into your mind and use your compassion against you.”

That sentiment had terrified Harry the most. To them, wizards were mere animals, he had painfully realized—nothing beyond lab rats, subjected to injections of poisons, limbs severed simply to observe the consequences on their magic. It didn't take long for Harry's pleading to fade into silence, his energy reserved for the singular goal of escaping.

“Eat.” The gentle command probed through his whirlwind emotions of hatred and desperation, pulling him back into the present. Malfoy’s gray eyes were shining with emotions that Harry didn’t wish to see. Concern and indignation, but also regret and, curiously, compassion. It twisted Harry’s insides and he averted his own, uncomfortable from the focus within them.

As Harry took his first bite from what appeared to be an artfully crafted shepherd’s pie, Malfoy returned to his seat by the window, clearly appeased that his ‘guest’ was taking his advice without further complaint. His foot was no longer tapping unconsciously, instead he rested leisurely against the arm rest and summoned a book from the adjacent rooms.

While he ate, the food resting uncomfortably in his unaccustomed stomach, Harry allowed himself a few seconds of studying Malfoy. He would have to find and exploit his host’s weaknesses soon enough, he assured himself.

The decade had treated Draco Malfoy well, apparently. He was not as pointy as he had been as a boy. Malfoy appeared well-rested; no longer did he have dark violet circles under his hollowed eyes. His complexion remained pale, though a healthy glow now enlivened his cheeks. Unlike their teen years, he styled his hair without a tub of gel; instead, soft-looking curls swept back, nearly long enough to touch the nape of his neck. Harry had to concede reluctantly—Malfoy had grown into a handsome man. Surely, the benefits of being rich and on the winning side, he seethed silently.

He continued to eat small bites of the shepherd’s pie, and while it was the best meal he had the pleasure of eating in a long while, he couldn’t manage more than half. His stomach, unfamiliar with an appropriately sized serving, protested. He continued to sip on the tea, which he surprisingly found sweetened to his liking. He couldn't remember having added sugar to the cup; however, it was perfect.

When the cup was empty, and Harry carefully pushed the hovering tray away, it simply popped out of existence.

“Well, I shall leave you to your rest,” Malfoy said as he stood and turned to leave.

“Call for Pippy or myself should you need anything at all.” Without awaiting a response, Malfoy strode out of the room and gently let the door click shut behind him. Harry listened intently for the lock to turn, though it remained silent. He simply had privacy; he was not locked within these walls.

Exhaustion enveloped Harry, and he sank back into the pillows. In the blink of an eye, he succumbed to the embrace of sleep. Resistance proved futile.

Chapter Text

“Will you tell me why you have brought a certain Harry Potter into our home”, the baritone voice reverberated through the sitting room. The flames in the fireplace flickered and shuddered, dancing erratically as though they, too, could sense the undercurrent of irritation.

A floating black robe glided into the room, preceding the man himself. Faint rummaging noises emanated from the adjacent study, a bag heavy with tomes thudded against the wooden floor and papers rustled on the secretaire.

Draco set aside the book he had been reading – Arithmancy in the Modern World – and watched the robe fold itself gracefully over the back of a wingchair.

“I thought he would liven up the manor”, Draco replied, his tone dry and unbothered by the air laden with a sense of foreboding and listened to the clacking of dress shoes drawing near. He leaned back and pretended to ignore the faint humming of foreign emotions stroking the borders to his occlumency shields – exasperation, irritation, and a touch of curiosity – a faint echo of the feelings his husband was currently warring with.

The plush cushion dipped low behind his back, embracing him as strong hands came to rest on his shoulders, squeezing tightly. A gentle kiss brushed against his cheek—a tender contrast amid the tension in the atmosphere. Despite it, Draco's heart maintained a steady, unperturbed rhythm as he leaned his head back against his husband's shoulder. Lips traveled over his skin, along his jaw down to his neck. Sharp teeth carefully nipped at his pulse point before pressing another kiss to the skin in apology.

“You invited my assassin to stay in our rooms.” Those lips murmured against the warming skin.

“Assassin?” Draco couldn’t help but smile and shake his head in exasperation. The man was known for his dramatics, though it never ceased to amuse Draco.

“It was a politically motivated murder.” The indignation was palpable.

“I believe, my Dear, it was personal by then.” Draco twisted his face toward the warm scent of parchment, ink, and earl grey tea, smiling lips finding his own easily. Voldemort may be a Dark Lord, a self-proclaimed King, known for his iron grip on magical Britain, but he was a devoted husband – Draco had found over the decade bound to him.

“May that as it be,” Tom replied between one kiss to the next, “care to explain why the Chosen One is currently residing in the spare room?”

“Pippy found him mangled and splinched in front of our gates. Apparently, he had tried to apparate directly into the Manor.”

Voldemort tsked without much humor. “He strikes me as reckless as he was in his youth.”

“Tom,” Draco’s tone took on a serious note at that, “I believe this is serious. He was running from someone. Potter would not willingly appear here, not after having left following your return and spending a decade in the muggle world.” He shook his head carefully. “Potter has children and he indicated that they are held captive somewhere. He is covered in scars, old and new ones. You should see how horrible they are,” Draco shivered with anger and disgust. “Muggles stitched him together, like an animal, with needle and thread. It is barbaric and primitive.”

He turned to face Tom. The Dark Lord had shed the inhuman glamor of cadaverous skin and serpentine features. Dark curls hung ruffled into Tom’s arched brows. Draco reached up to push them out of his face and cupped his husband’s sharp jaw, a faint stubble scratching the skin of his palm. Voldemort's irises, pulsating with ember red, stood in stark contrast to his deceitfully youthful appearance, a testament to the decades he had dedicated to the intricacies of the Dark Arts.

"Wizards and witches, particularly those in close proximity to the muggle world, are disappearing.” Tom replied with measured composure, yet the disquietude in his gaze belied the calm cadence of his words.

“We have an obligation to the Wizarding World to find out what those muggles did to Potter; where they kept him.” He continued as Draco remained patient, fingers stroking the skin below Tom’s ear in contemplative silence. “Intelligence reports suggest they are conducting experimentation. Claire Howard informed me they are attempting to extract magical essence. To unravel the workings allowing a wizard's body to channel magic through our wands. It is harrowing, it is nothing short of torture."

Draco found it unnerving to observe the Dark Lord showing a rare moment of discomfort at the violence muggles were evidently capable of. It was an unexpected sight, for he was not a man at all known for his gentle hand.

“I will defer to you. Though, I earnestly ask you to remain civil. He is already suspicious of me, and he will outright refuse to engage with you, I know it. Tom, he holds a deep hatred for you, and with just cause, if I am honest. You are responsible for the death of his friends, his family.” Draco would have feared a Crucio for his callous words, however, he had grown a spine since his youth. Something he was immensely proud of, and it had become apparent that Tom deeply valued his frankness. Though he preferred it in private and not along with an audience.

“Harry Potter knows you as his enemy; he has not seen what I have seen. How your soul has mended or your return to sanity. He will not treat our connection lightly, nor will he perceive you as an ally.”

At that, his husband straightened and silently stepped around the loveseat. Seating himself beside Draco’s crossed legs, he wordlessly banished his shoes into the wardrobe and opened the first button of his cream white dress shirt. Casually, he crossed one ankle over the other knee and, as though it was an unconscious move, placed a gentle hand onto Draco’s thigh. Draco placed his hand over it and interlaced their fingers, trying to warm the chilly skin.

“Perhaps,” Tom mused, still very much in thought, his voice quiet. “Perhaps, you shall take over. Gather intel from Harry Potter. It may be wise to keep my position in your life a secret for the time being, until you have his trust, and we can sufficiently act on his knowledge.”

“He will feel betrayed.” Draco’s gut churned uncomfortably at the thought, he had betrayed the poor man enough as it was.

“Yes.” Tom hummed. “Though for the good of wizarding kind, we’ll have to make sacrifices. We need that information if we want to stand a chance, Draco.” His name rolled of Tom’s tongue like a foreign caress. He was trying to placate his guilt, Draco knew.

“No. We won’t subject Potter to that again. He was raised a lamb predestined for slaughter, manipulated to sacrifice himself in the battle against you. He was molded and betrayed, not just by me, but by those he trusted and held dearest. If we want a lasting alliance, one capable to withstand the threat of this war, honesty is the only option I see. We should seek to earn Harry Potter’s trust through truth, not through deception.”

Draco waited with bated breath, fiddling lightly with the golden wedding band on Tom’s finger. It was an intricate piece of jewelry, one that matched his own. Entwining snakes, one with diamonds and one with red rubies for eyes encircled each other on their ring fingers, an inscription marking the inside.

“Very well,” Tom answered at last, though his tone was cautious.

“I shall leave it in your capable hands to forge an alliance with Harry Potter. I caution you that it won't be a simple task; the man is inherently distrustful, and this revelation will not contribute to gaining his trust.”

“Thank you for your trust.” Draco teased Tom and bend forward to press another kiss to the man’s lips. “How long will you be staying at the manor?” He asked cautiously, changing the topic swiftly to thwart a change of heart.

“I will have to leave again before the night is over.” Tom’s voice sounded of regret. “I only came because Ms. Greengrass finally deemed it important enough to inform me of our new houseguest. I figured it was time for you to enlighten me, seeing as you failed to mention this in any of our correspondence?”

Draco scoffed. “Due time, my Love. I would have told you in due time. I couldn’t have you barging in here, demanding Potter’s head the moment after he had barely escaped his most recent brush with death.”

“I would not.”

“You have before! You cast the killing curse yourself. Mother told me so.”

“I was not in a right state of mind, my Heart. You can hardly blame me.”

“Oh, I can very well blame you for fracturing your soul and going insane. No one asked of you to kill people.” Draco’s shoulders tensed, waiting for Tom to anger, though the other simply laughed ruefully, mirth traveling in quiet quips over the bond they shared.

“You are certainly right. I have indeed only myself to blame for creating the Horcruxes, useful tools as they may be. But I should have stopped at one, like you have.”

Draco shuddered, acknowledging his cowardice in refusing to confront his role in the ritual and the sacrifice he had made in those precarious moments. However, it had seemed the only option—to bind the Dark Lord to him, making Voldemort Draco’s own Horcrux to ensure mutual destruction in case Voldemort attempted to punish Draco for his actions during the battle. Tom hadn't taken it lightly, subjecting Draco to Crucio after Crucio and nearly pushing him to the edge of insanity. Though he had later admitted to admiring Draco for his gall.

“Hmmm.” Draco responded non-committing and stared into the flames.

“Do not fret, my Heart. It was a wise decision; I would not be here without it.” Tom brought their joint hands to his lips and pressed a supple kiss to his knuckles. “And I have returned with nearly my soul intact, that is more than one could hope for.”

“Indeed, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

“I know, but it did.” Another kiss was placed onto his hand, before the tingling of the monitor charms on Potter warned Draco of the man’s sleep becoming restless. Draco had no desire to explain a certain Tom Riddle on his sofa just yet, no matter how dashing a sight he made.

He stood and pulled the Dark Lord up with him, the other following him easily. “Perhaps I can convince you of making a wise decision for yourself and staying until the morning. The Kingdom can wait until daylight breaks.” He smirked at Tom’s quirked eyebrows and drew the man into their bedroom, locking their doors tightly and weaving thorough silencing charms through the walls.

Chapter Text

Five days of indolence was surely enough.

Harry woke in the early hours and unlike the day before, he woke with a start. Drenched in cold sweat and the sheets tangled around his legs in a damp mess, the remnants of his nightmares still swirled like smoke in the dark shadows of the room. The terrified screams of his children had haunted him in the night, and no matter how often he escaped into the world of the conscious, the dreams returned the moment he closed his eyes again.

The horrid scenes repeated like a broken record, scratched Harry’s brain painfully before restarting at the beginning: A crowded kitchen table of oak. The leaflets spread out to accommodate the odd collection of teacups, pots, and random sets of fine china. Some bore the markings of runes, others were adorned with rose-leaf patterns. One mug, that he was particularly fond of, was cradled in both of his hands, his thumb idly chasing the snitch flitting across the porcelain – a gift from Ron, years ago.

Harry smiled into the lukewarm tea, sharing amused looks with Ginny over the rim of the cup. She looked beautiful and at ease, the last few months after the divorce had brought peace between them and Harry treasured that they could sit here together, watching their children’s antics.

Family was Harry's anchor, a persistent yearning deep within him for something uniquely his own that had felt so unattainable in his youth. Whether it was observing the Dursleys bask in familial love while intentionally excluding him or being welcomed into the warm embrace of the Weasley family, there lingered a sense of not quite fitting, an unmet yearning for a connection that felt distinctly his.

Harry had feared that he would lose this, the warm togetherness, when he had confessed to Ginny that he couldn’t reciprocate her love the way she deserved. That she was the most wonderful woman and mother, but that he found himself forced to admit to both her and himself, that he was not attracted to her, or any woman for that matter. It had taken him twenty-seven years to realize that his desire did not extend beyond holding hands.

In the aftermath of the war, Harry had hoped his apparent lack of attraction was a result of his broken state. It seemed a plausible explanation – a subconscious defense mechanism formed out of an unconscious fear of losing those he held dear. The scars, both physical and emotional, left by the battles and losses might have unconsciously driven him to close himself off from the vulnerable realm of attraction. However, a new coworker, a young man with bleached blond hair and bright, green eyes, had thoroughly upended the theories he had crafted in the darkness of late hours.

He had never been unfaithful, mind you. Harry could never betray Ginny and break her trust. For one, Ron would come riding his broom from the Wizarding World and hex him into oblivion – he nearly had when he had heard of the divorce in the first place.

No, he had diligently avoided the man who had stirred his newfound desires, confessing to Ginny the following weekend. They had found a way to share game Sundays and tea with their children; Ginny had forgiven him eventually.

James, mischievous and quick, had snatched the last Danish from the serving platter. Lily, a relentless competitor, instantly sprang after him, ready to wrestle the pastry out of his cold, dead hands. Her eyes, her mother’s captivating brown, narrowed with determination and indignation. Lily swiftly left her seat, poised like a Seeker on a Quidditch field she lunged for the coveted treat.

James cackled, the Weasley genes stretching him nearly three heads taller than her, and dangled the sticky Danish just out of Lily's reach.

Lily was left jumping on her tippy toes, an amusing attempt to pull down his arm. Without a wand in hand, a clear incantation flowed effortlessly from Lily's lips. A surge of magic crackled through the air, catching herself and James off guard. A startled yelp escaped the boy as the jinx connected with his shoulder. The Danish slipped from his fingers and a curse flitted from his lips.

In the suspended silence of that moment, Lily gazed up at Harry and Ginny, her round eyes anxiously shifting between the two.

Ginny, in instinctive response, rose to her feet and scolded James for his inappropriate language before checking him for any harm. Harry, with a wink at Lily, swiftly composed his expression into one of disapproval as Ginny redirected her lecture toward Lily, addressing her use of magic within the house and directed at her brother, no less.

Pandemonium erupted with a thunderous crack. Before she could finish her sentence, the apartment's door shattered inward, splintering against the wall and scattering into pieces on the floor. Lily’s embarrassed crying turned into terrified screams and Harry was out of his seat within the blink of an eye.

Men, indiscernible for their dark masks, rushed in before Harry could say a word. Ginny, with the reflexes of a war veteran, shot a wild curse at the first man through the door as Harry grabbed the nearest child and pulled him behind his back, a terrified sob escaping the boy’s tongue.

The man dropped lifeless to the floor with a thud, sprawled among the splinters and bathed in the fading light of the green curse. Harry would have marveled at Ginerva casting a killing curse without a wand, especially after years of near non-practice, if it weren’t for more intruders streaming into their small space. The masked men didn’t stop to consider their fallen member, they simply stepped over the dead body, guns held with deadly confidence. Harry had seen the movies, he had seen the threat those weapons posed and yet he wasn’t quick enough to react, shock slowing his movements as much as his mind.

He was a fraction of a second too late. His heart in his chest was thumping too loudly, his tongue bound by the ugly monster of fear.

Ginny braced herself for the upcoming spell, drawing in a deep breath and stepping forward. However, before she could cast, a sharp crack split the air, threatening to shatter Harry’s eardrums. Time appeared to slow as a burst of fire escaped the barrel, and from a thin stream of smoke, a bullet swiftly made its way directly toward Ginny.

Harry, in time with panic wrapping like cold fingers around his heart, conjured a Protego, and watched the glimmering barrier engulfing them a hair too late, closing around themselves and the deadly projectile.

The icy fingers of dread squeezed tightly, and his heart stopped, deathly silence wrapping itself around his mind. Harry could only watch powerlessly as the bullet embedded itself between Ginny’s eyes. Eyes he had stared into for nearly two decades, the ones she had passed onto their children, the irises he knew by heart – flecks of gold and green – turned glassy. Ginny dropped to the floor.

Seconds ticked by, as if not only Harry and his children but also the intruders couldn't believe they had managed to harm one of them. A piercing scream shattered the shocked silence.

Harry lunged at the assailant who had fired the shot, unleashing a vicious Diffindo aimed at the monster’s throat. The wet coughing and stumbling steps of his target failed to quell the rising feelings of hatred and wrath within him.

Conjuring Protego after Protego, Diffindo after Diffindo, Harry struck down man after man, relentlessly defending his family. However, the shielding spell fizzled away the moment another gun's projectiles reached him, attaching themselves to his chest.

Pain, akin to a Crucio curse, gripped Harry. The sharp burning sensation pierced through his chest as currents of high voltage surged through his body. Control over his muscles slipped away, and he collapsed to the floor, twisting and twitching uncontrollably until the assault ceased.

He couldn’t stand, his muscles plagued with an exhaustion he had not felt since the day he had died. His mind was clouded, and nausea kept the room around him spinning in dizzying circles. Through the lenses of disorientation, he watched Albus drop to the floor and crawl towards his mother. Harry could see, through the heaviness of his lids, how the child cradled her bleeding body.

His vision swimming, he tried to find Lily. Finding her throwing herself forward, screaming in agony and hatred. Her small body was racing toward the invaders, and an unspeakable power exploded from her, raw magic triggering the cracking and splintering of wood and glass. Harry laid helplessly amongst the rubble, fearing his daughter would inadvertently rip herself apart in the torrent of uncontrolled magic. James followed close on her heels, fury contorting his young features.

Harry was forced to watch as his children were Crucio’d by muggle devices and collected like limp dolls, only periodically twitching from the shock. Without heart or care, they peeled Albus off Ginny’s twisted body; his cheeks streaked with deep tracks of tears and blood. He fought, he bit and screamed and tore at what he could reach. Each of them lost their battles one by one.

Boots, black and polished to perfection, appeared before Harry’s eyes, obscuring his vision. He still couldn’t move and lay helplessly as something sharp pierced his skin above his collarbone and the world went dark, drowning the fear and despair that left him unable to breathe.

The dark slowly dissipated like swirling smog, the air smelling of roses and pastries, the laughter of his family ringing through the home. Harry opened his eyes to blink at Ginny’s brown eyes, smiling at him with life and mirth. Amongst the fog, he noticed the hair on his arms raising, dread curled in his gut, and he fought against the sweet pull of the happy scene. His subconscious begging for him to end the seemingly never-ending loop of his dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry swore at having fallen back into the nightmare and kicked the sheets off his feet. He stumbled out of bed and through the door he hoped was leading to the adjacent bathroom. A breath of relief fogged the mirror when he had wagered correctly, a blurry man of dark circles and wild hair staring back at him.

His own reflection was foreign to him. His stomach churned when he dared to wipe at the glass and watch his drawn in face.

Harry looked like a broken man, he thought. Like death had come for him repeatedly and finally claimed him. He no longer saw the resemblance to Albus that he so loved to brag to Ginny about. He was thin and scarred, dull eyes and skin telling the story of a man tortured for scientific curiosity.

Harry dropped his head, sickened by the sight and instead watched his spindly fingers gripping the edge to the sink. His fingernails were torn and raw, though it was clear someone had cleaned them for they were bloodless and without dirt. He was grateful not to see the remainder of what he had done to Dr. Curie and wished to wash of any remaining remnants of her death.

As though the bathroom was listened to his inner turmoil and self-depreciation, the faucet of the nearby porcelain bathtub turned. Steaming water, smelling of lavender and rosemary poured into the basin. Harry’s aching muscles screamed for the relief of the hot water, and he finally relented when his knees nearly buckled.

He shed his clothing, folding them carelessly and dropped them onto the floor. Carefully, he stepped into the water, the heat burning like pinpricks and encouraging his circulation to quicken. Slowly, he lowered himself in, minding the bandages on his left shoulder so they wouldn’t get wet.

With every passing minute, the pain lessened, and Harry closed his heavy lids to doze off again.

By the time he came to, the water was nearly lukewarm, and the steam curled lazily through the room. Harry stood up carefully, mindful of his blood pressure and reached for the soft towel to dry himself.

“Do you wish to shave, Sir?” Harry started at the voice and nearly slipped on the wet marble tiles, his injuries pulling dangerously. He yelped from the pain and gripped the edge of the bathtub to steady himself.

Staring at the door, Harry's heart pounded, half-expecting the man behind the voice to step through any moment. The mirror's impatient repetition reminded him that he had forgotten about the enchanted mirrors in the Wizarding World.

Harry scolded himself for the sharp pang of regret. He'd left the magical world so long ago that memories of the enchanting places that fascinated him during his teenage years had almost faded away. Some of it felt like an old dream, a story he had read as a child and nearly forgotten.

With shaking hands, he grabbed the razor conveniently balanced on the edge of the sink, both out of habit and because he was still missing his wand.

With careful strokes, Harry tried to trim the beard that, under other circumstances and different style choices, could be quite impressive. As the thick locks fell into the marbled sink, he uncovered the Harry he recognized under the coarse hair. Though he looked haggard, it was a relief to see that he could become himself again with a little care.

After a final splash of cold water and a somewhat underhanded insult from the mirror, he turned with a searching eye for his clothing. He stropped dead in his tracks with a curse rolling from his tongue that had the mirror gasping.

Those fucking bastards.

“Bloody hell! They took my clothes!” He shook for anger, his teeth grinding hard. The tension that had left him so peaceful in the water returned in an instant.

They had waited for the perfect opportunity to render him vulnerable and then trapped him here by removing his last personal belonging. They took his wand, his pants – granted neither really belonged to him in the first place, but that was entirely beside the point!

Furiously gripping the towel around his hip, he stormed into the bedroom. Ready to strike at Malfoy the moment he had found him, but stopped short before the bed he had woken up in. Shame washed over him in an instant.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Twelve years! Oh, it had been twelve years.

And a marriage! An eventually happy one at that, for Salazar’s sake, and it was as though the passage of time mattered little.

His breath caught and humiliating heat rushed to Draco’s cheeks as he stared at Potter charge into the Green Room. The other had nothing but a towel clad around his hips, fury distorted Potter’s features to an all-familiar look; one that rekindled longing like a dormant flame deep in Draco’s chest.

Instinctively, Draco wanted to place his hands on Potter. Preferably, to smash his fist into Potter’s handsome nose or dig the edge of his heirloom ring deep into the skin above the man’s jaw. Always carefully cloaked as anger and hatred, old desire seeped unexpectedly to the forefront.

“What the FUCK do you think you are doing?” Potter cried, and panic threatened to suffocate Draco. Had his emotions been so blatantly clear on his face? He schooled its features quickly into a snarl that would have generals cower before him. Potter seemed nonetheless furious.

“I have done nothing.” He said, practiced tone and masking coldness mixing into his words.

“You think you can steal my clothes? My wand? And keep me here, locked away, until when? You hand me over to Voldemort? Screw you, Malfoy, and your lies. You can’t help but betray me, can you? I spoke for you at the trials, you arse. And this is how you thank me?! Tell me I’m a guest, but take anything that could help me escape?” Potter ran out of breath, an admonishing feat as the other liked to hear himself talk, clearly.

Now, the fury within Draco was no longer a protective mask. How Potter always managed to get a rise out of him was a shame to his standing.

“Pippy was so kind as to clean them, Potter.” He spat the name with vitriol. How dare Potter accuse him of anything but civility? Bringing up his life debt, one that surely was forgiven now that he had saved Potter’s life mere days ago, was a blow he felt was unexpected from the celebrated Darling of the Wizarding World. Wasn’t he supposed to be the gracious one?
“And perhaps, she concluded that maybe you would be grateful to have your own clothes and not the wonderful attire you appeared on my doorstep in. Though what do I know,” he raised his eyebrow in disdain, “maybe you have moved on from hideous hand-me-downs to paper thin hospital gowns in the meantime. Though I can’t say they suit you well, they are hideous.”

Potter stared at him in bewilderment, and clearly, Draco had spoken too fast for the numpty. Impatiently, he motioned to the bed, where Pippy had kindly made to lay out a pair of linen trousers in dark grey and a black silk shirt, matching underclothing tucked inconspicuously underneath.

“Oh.” Potter was dumbstruck, a look so very familiar on the man’s face. Too close to the boyish look, Draco decided quickly as he fought hard to suffocate the desire kindling once again.

“Apology graciously accepted.” Draco responded with his eyebrows raised while watching the Chosen One clumsily walking to the bed.

“I shall leave you to change.” He turned on a pointed heel. “We will be having breakfast in the dining room this morning, please feel free to join us whenever you are ready. Should you need help,” A dig at Potter’s clear incompetency, one Draco was proud of, “please call for Pippy. She has raised many a child.”

Draco chose to ignore the indignant spluttering coming from Potter’s mouth and strode out of the room. As soon as the heavy door clicked shut, he sagged against the wood and pressed a hand against his chest, his heart racing in tandem with his thoughts.

Well damn. He was truly buggered.

Guilt and shame were slowly swirling within him as he strode through the sitting room down to the dining room on the lower level.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn't shake the feeling of utter foolishness yet blaming himself seemed just as ridiculous. After all, it was entirely within Malfoy's character to leave him vulnerable just for the amusement of seeing him struggle. The Malfoy from his school days, a real prat, had a knack for hiding his belongings, especially after a Quidditch match, forcing Harry to dart around shielding himself with his hands. On more than one occasion, he had found himself in this embarrassing predicament, with Ron eventually taking pity on him and begrudgingly sharing his cloak.

His fingers tested the quality of the fabric, it was surely more expensive than the monthly rent and utilities in his home had been. He changed into the clothes Pippy had laid out for him and marveled at the easy fit they were. Everything was tailored to his current measurements and again, he was awestruck at the wonderful magic House-elves possessed.

“Thank you very much, Pippy.” He said into the empty room in belated thanks and walked back into the bathroom to study his reflection.

“Would you look at that.” The mirror exclaimed. “He is a human after all! And a handsome one at that. A sight for sore eyes, indeed.”

“Shut up.” Mirror-Harry’s expression soured, though he had to admit that the clothing did accentuate his features, as haggard as he was at the moment. Perhaps a meal, despite taken with Malfoy, would do him well. As on cue, his stomach rumbled, and he made to leave his chambers.

“Pippy is to escort Lord Harry Potter, Sir, to the dining hall.” The elf surprised Harry as he opened the door out of his rooms. To his shock, she wore a delicate dress in rose, blue carnations formed random patterns on the fabric. He could have sworn she was wearing orange the day before. Or maybe red, he hadn’t paid too close attention.

She stood tall and proud, as though delighted by her task, and motioned for Harry to follow her.

He made note of where they were going, having visited the Manor only briefly during truly unpleasant moments several years ago and never to these rooms. They crossed a sitting room, dark green velvet chairs flanking a matching sofa across from a lavish fireplace. More bookshelves than he could count in that brief moment, displayed an impressive collection of books and random artifacts. Some light, most dark, no doubt. An open book was placed face down on the mahogany end table next to the settee.

“Arythmancy in the Modern World” Harry read aloud as they walked past.

“Very important, Harry Potter, Sir. Masters always try to stay informed on current discoveries, yes, they are.” Harry, he would later regret dearly, failed to pick up on Pippy speaking in plurals and nodded in thought. He should have kept up with magic, he thought instead. It would have been helpful now.

They passed a beautiful set of closed French doors and the cracked door of a study. A brief glimpse of the room revealed a collection of books that would have Hermione turn green for in envy. A library adjacent to her bedroom? A bibliophile’s paradise on earth, indeed.

Pippy took him down a grand staircase before turning to enter a large dining room. Malfoy was already seated at the head, a feast of eggs, pancakes, fruits and parfaits, including other dishes Harry failed to make out, stood spread over the surface of a large dining table.

“The House-elves weren’t sure what foods you may prefer. Since you spurned their shepherd’s pie yesterday, they felt it necessary to make…well, everything.” A grand hand swept over the meal on display, though Malfoy did not deem it necessary to look up from the paper he was reading. Still displeased at their earlier misunderstanding, Harry concluded and made his way to a seat on the left. Though he kept a few chairs empty between himself and the host, creating a careful distance.

At this Malfoy peaked over the paper and raised a graceful, pale blond eyebrow. Though he refrained from commenting.

Sticking to the familiar, Harry chose to plate himself a short stack of pancakes and fruit. Cream appeared to his right and a fragrant tea poured itself into the cup next to his hand. At Malfoy’s wave of a hand, two sugars jumped across the tablecloth and plopped into his tea, a splash of cream followed right behind.

Harry gaped at his cup. He wanted to ask how Malfoy knew he took his tea sweet, but he was too proud and uncomfortable to ask. Instead, he gratefully stirred the sweetened brew and took his first sip. It was a wonderful feeling, hot tea gliding down his throat and settling comfortingly in his stomach. It was a luxury he had refused to think about in the months locked up and now it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

His stomach grumbled loudly. Malfoy tsked his tongue at that and impatiently motioned for him to eat. At last, Harry dug in and couldn’t care for propriety or manners – he ate like the starving man that he was.

It didn't catch Harry's attention that Malfoy was subtly shaking his head at someone by the door, someone trying their best not to stare. Harry also failed to notice that person turning away at Malfoy's urging and leaving the frame to head toward the Floo network in the entry hall.

Only when the flames flared to life with a whoosh did he look up in confusion.

“Are you expecting another guest?” He asked Malfoy, who hastily looked away from the door.

“No, Astoria left for work. She is a renown mediwitch at St. Mungo’s.” Malfoy’s voice tilted hurriedly and Harry’s hairs raised in suspicion.

“Astoria? She is your wife?” Harry inquired carefully.

“We were promised to be married since our fifth year at Hogwarts. She was an essential part in your healing, you should know. Astoria is an incredibly gifted witch and surgeon. You would have died were it not for her.” While the truth, Harry could discern, he had the distinct feeling that Malfoy was trying to provide this information as a distraction.

“Please give her my sincerest gratitude.” Harry said and meant it.

“You may tell her yourself; she should be joining us for supper tonight. Should her schedule allow it, that is.” Malfoy returned to his papers.

“While that sounds lovely, I won’t be here when she returns.”

The paper rustled and Malfoy put it down onto the table. When Harry looked up, the intense grey of Malfoy’s eyes tried to pierce his own. He was ticked off, Harry concluded, though that would hardly change his mind. He had recovered, now it was time to locate his children.

“You cannot be serious. You have barely healed. Besides, where do you intend to go?”

“To my children, Malfoy. You, of all people, though surprisingly, should be able to understand what we will do for family. If I remember correctly, you resurrected Voldemort to “save your parents” once again.” For the second time since his arrival here, suspicion rose in Harry when Malfoy failed to shrink away at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name. It was a curious development, one that left Harry uneasy.

Malfoy ignored the pointed jab at his betrayal after the war. “I understand that your children are your priority, I do not wish to take away from that urgency. But do you even know where they are? Where will you start? This is a dangerous endeavor, and you are in no place to take on muggles in this state.”

Harry ground his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumped and he noticed only belatedly that the silverware was slightly rattling on the plate.

“It doesn’t matter, Malfoy. They are suffering, and I can hear their screams every night. I need to get to them now. Not tomorrow. Not a week from today. Now.”

Malfoy was still for a moment and watched the still shaking silverware on the table. He wasn’t perturbed, not visibly, instead watched the uncontrolled magic as one would the display of a child’s tantrum. Patiently, he waited for the shivering and clinking of metal against porcelain to cease, his brows drawn in ruminative silence.

“I give you my word, Harry Potter, that I personally will provide aid in your search for your children if you promise to go about this levelheaded.” He began carefully, as though as he was considering his every word carefully. “I am aware, Gryffindor that you are, that you wish to barge into their headquarters headfirst, damn the consequences. But these muggles are armed and intelligent, they will kill your children before you can reach them.”

Malfoy lifted his gaze, locking onto Harry's with an intensity that seemed akin to the casting of an Imperius Curse.

In a panic, Harry considered the possibility and averted his eyes. He had witnessed enough displays of wandless and wordless magic from Malfoy to believe he was capable of such prowess. Not that he believed him capable of suppleness.

Even with the eye contact broken, Harry sensed his resolve waver. He was undeniably outnumbered and, if not outsmarted then surely at a disadvantage in experience. Neither did he know where to look.

“Very well.” Harry said, reluctancy and distrust coloring his voice. “I will wait, if you promise to help me get my children back. Or at least not stand in the way when I know how.”

“I, Draco Malfoy, herby swear to Harry Potter, on detriment of my magic, that I will do anything within my power and provide any resources the House of Malfoy and the Manor may possess to aid Harry Potter in the search for his children. So mote it be.”

Magic weaved between them, strong and surely, and Harry choked in shock. He had not demanded a vow on Malfoy’s magic. And while not an unbreakable vow, it was undeniable that Malfoy had sworn a powerful oath. The man sat straight; his wand held confidently in his hand. Eyes, clear and determined, locked onto Harry’s. Something that Harry vehemently refused to acknowledge wedged its way back to the surface. Something Harry had violently buried many, many years ago. It laid bittersweet on his tongue, and he swallowed hard to force it back down.

“I didn’t ask for this.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat.

“I am fully aware of that, and I gave it, nonetheless. Now, will you please recover before we do something reckless?” Malfoy returned to his reading, the newspaper rustling softly when he turned the pages. He clearly saw the conversation as finished and Harry didn’t bother on pressing further.

They remained in uncomfortable silence, neither willing to engage in small talk and it wasn’t until Harry had finished his fourth cup of tea, becoming jittery with the caffeine, that Malfoy finished perusing the paper and disappeared it with a snap.

“Very well.” Draco made himself a tea with the wave of his hand. No sugar, a splash of cream.

“Tell me what happened. Everything that you remember.” It was more a command than a request, but Harry agreed, nonetheless.

“I don’t know where to begin, frankly.” Harry scratched at his chin and realized belatedly that his beard was gone, leaving him feel somewhat exposed, vulnerable. He moved his hand to his curls, which tangled around his fingers and tickled the nape of his neck. Perhaps he should have cut it as well, wild as it was. Malfoy’s gaze didn’t waver, steam twirling in lazy twists, framing his face as he gently blew over his tea. He waited without a hint of impatience.

“They must have tracked us somehow. They knew when Lily used magic and broke down our door within minutes. Don’t ask me how, she hadn’t used a wand, she doesn’t have one yet. Only James has a wand, it was Ginny’s first one, the one she used as a child, before she got her own.” His eyes pricked with tears, talking about Ginny. He missed her dearly; she would have burned the world down to get to their children. Now that was left to him alone. And Malfoy, he supposed.

“They killed Ginny, shot her and I didn’t even have time to shield her with a Protego. She had cast a Killing Curse, took one of their people down with it. She died for us, for our children and it wasn’t enough.” To his shame, tears fell stubbornly.

He expected Malfoy to turn away, uncomfortable with the vulnerable display of emotions, yet the man persisted in studying him, listening intently.

“They incapacitated me after. I was shocked with a stun gun. Not unlike a Crucio, I suppose,” Harry tried to explain as Malfoy’s brows drew up in confusion.

“I watched them grab my children. They stunned Lily and James as well; they were fighting with their teeth bared. God, it was horrible to watch. Albus was crying over Ginny’s body, I have not seen him crying since he was four.” Harry shivered, damp spots appearing on the tablecloth before him. Angrily, he wiped underneath his glasses.

“I don’t know what happened, I lost consciousness and woke in a cell. It was sterile and there was nothing to focus your mind on. All I could do was replay the scene in my head and drive myself into insanity. Occasionally, they would bring food.” His stomach churned at the grey blobs of substance they had tried to sell him as a meal.

“Then the experiments started. At first, I was unconscious for them. I would be brought into a surgical room and wake up in my cell, new scars and cuts along my arm and chest. They would cut me open, trying to find out where I hid my magic; how it got out.”

“Then, when they didn’t find anything, they kept me awake. They used scalpels and scissors to cut at my skin, through my muscles. They interrogated me while I watched them slice away. They asked if we had an additional organ they couldn’t find.” He shivered. He had thanked the many Gods and Merlin himself they had used local anesthesia as he watched skin being cut from muscle, muscle from bone.

“When I couldn’t answer, they sewed me shut and repeated the process in the morning. I have never in my life experienced so much pain. Death was less horrid than the experiments; I can’t tell you how often I begged for it. How often I prayed to Magic herself, even to the muggle Gods to set me free.” His breathing was labored, he hadn’t noticed that he was digging his nails into his scars, most of them healed now. Malfoy reached over slowly, seemingly careful not to spook him, and peeled Harry’s hands of his arms.

“I waited and watched, I build a rapport with one of the doctors, encouraged her to share a few details about muggle technology. I bated my time.” Harry's eyes were unfocused, vision hazy as the memories of that day constricted his throat.

"It must have been a holiday, they were severely understaffed. I made my escape that day and ended up here." He vaguely gestured at the room around him, the large windows and imposing furniture.

“Trust me, I had not planned to show up at your doors. I apparated blindly.” He was bewildered, still, that his magic had deemed Malfoy's Manor "safe" or "home", of all places. Ron's or even Hermione's place would have made more sense.

“It was a good thing that you did. I couldn’t let you bleed out on my front lawn.” It sounded like a joke, but Malfoy’s face was serious, and concern broke through the careful façade. He had been biting his lower lip, it was red and swollen. Harry looked away quickly.

“I suppose. Better than a public muggle place. Breaking the Statute of Secrecy and finding my way back into their wards in one strike.” Harry shook his head in disgust. “If my children are in a similar place, we have to get to them as soon as possible, Malfoy. I can’t have them suffer longer than they already have.”

“Where should we start?” Malfoy stood as though he was readying himself to apparate this moment. But instead, made to leave the dining room, waiting at the door and turning expectedly back to Harry, beckoning him to follow.

Chapter Text

Harry rose to his feet to follow, clumsily stalking after Malfoy. In his awkward hurry, he nearly tripped over the chair that suddenly seemed to block his path and barely caught himself on the edge of the table.

The wood scraped loudly over the floor, the China rattled on the table and Harry cringed at the sound resonating loudly in the room. For a second, he anticipated a sardonic comment or amused chuckle from Malfoy though the other didn’t spare him a glance.

The tall, blonde wizard continued to stride purposefully towards the hall, seemingly indifferent to the minor mishap behind him and Harry’s embarrassment turned to a twisting feeling of anger. Malfoy's nonchalant dismissal of their longstanding rivalry was like fuel to the flames of irritation. Yet, with a sour taste in his mouth, Harry opted to bite his tongue, suppressing the urge to voice his vexation and followed after Malfoy.

Together, they returned to Harry’s rooms, crossing the expansive sitting room with quick strides. Malfoy opened the French doors and motioned for Harry to wait as he stepped inside.

Confused, Harry cautiously took another step into the room, lingering near the entrance with his back turned to the curtains that veiled the glass of the French doors.

The spacious bedroom he found himself in surpassed the grandeur of his own next door. The pair of nightstands flanking the opulent king-sized bed hinted at a shared use. Each nightstand held evidence of its occupant — a nearly empty water glass, a sizable book with a quill feather serving as a bookmark adorned the right side. A golden clock haphazardly balancing on a leatherbound journal and nearly hiding a muggle pen on the left nightstand.

A clothing rack nearby displayed a wild assortment of suits and shirts, seemingly of different sizes and styles, waiting for the opportune moment to be worn and books overflowed the bookshelves lining the walls.

Harry was aware of Malfoy’s penchant for being well-read, an apparent requirement for pure-blood wizards, Ravenclaws, and Hermiones alike. Yet, in Harry’s years of following him around Hogwarts, it had seemed as though the books Malfoy had read were more a display of superiority and arrogance than a true desire for knowledge.

The sheer number of books felt more demonstrative than of use, the Malfoy-ishness of it comforting, and Harry stifled a snort.

He could feel Malfoy’s questioning look on the side of his face, prickling with intensity against his temple, but he turned away purposefully and kept his gaze trained on the seating area by the windows.

Beckoning his tired body with its comfort, overstuffed with jewel-toned blankets and cushions, it was clearly a home. One belonging to Malfoy, evident in the ease with which he moved within, grabbing a roll of parchment and a book from the shelves.

Which meant, he concluded with concern, that Harry was in the private rooms of Malfoy Manor, living adjacent to Malfoy himself.

He could fathom why; he would have wanted to keep an eye on Malfoy if their roles were reversed. However, the knowledge that the man slept less than a hundred feet away from him made him uncomfortable. Even at Hogwarts, their living quarters hadn’t been that close, and he had been grateful for that.

He quickly stepped away as Malfoy exited the bedroom, maintaining a careful distance and once again earning himself a questioning stare. A mumbled spell and a wave of magic closed the French doors behind them as an afterthought.
He followed Malfoy into the study next door and watched intently as the other spelled rolls of parchments and important looking notes into their respective drawers, effectively hiding them from Harry’s prying eyes. He couldn’t make out the content of each document, though they all bore the same insignia of two snakes entwined—one with red, the other with silver eyes.

“Let us start here.” Malfoy murmured and carefully unfolded a large map on the desk.

Harry bent over it, intrigued by the magic imbued into it. It was a simple map of Great Britain, dots marking cities and lines marking highways and roads. But when Malfoy tapped a specific area with his wand, it would magnify and show the intricate details. It reminded Harry of the Navigator Ginny had kept in her car, though more colorful and, perhaps, more artistic.

He asked Malfoy to zoom into their location and as he obliged, Malfoy made the Manor appear on the map. It looked as though it were a miniature sketch of the Manor’s grounds; green grass drawn, intersected by the blue lines of rivers and ponds. The Manor itself was nothing but a gray box, vaguely in the shape of what he assumed the layout was. It was far more advanced than the Navigator.

“Okay. Where is “here”? Where do we start?” Harry asked finally after having admired the map sufficiently. Magic had improved–he thought as he made himself comfortable in an adjacent chair.

“Since you don’t remember anything from how you got there, do you remember anything from the place of your detainment as you escaped it?” Malfoy procured another parchment, this one blank and began taking notes with a white feathered quill.

“Er…” Harry started eloquently, carefully prodding the dam holding back a flood of unwelcome memories. Like through pinpricks, details trickled down and he struggled to decide which recollections may be useful and which were redundant.

“I think I was somewhere industrial. Somewhere relatively quiet. I didn’t hear a lot of sounds from the outside world. Though it could have been drowned out by the sound of electricity.”

At that, Malfoy’s brows drew together in confusion.

“Elic - Electricity has a sound?” He looked put out by that, as though it was another failure of muggle kind.

“Well, sort of,” Harry frowned, grappling with the challenge of explaining electricity to a wizard who had likely never stepped foot into a modern muggle home. “Ginny couldn’t hear it, but I could. It's like a high-pitched vibration or a constant stream of white noise,” Malfoy confusion seemed to darken his face further, the furrow between his brows deepened.

“A buzzing that relentlessly pierces your mind if you let it,” Harry tried again. “Their lights, especially, buzz when turned on.” Malfoy wrinkled his long nose in disgust, an expression almost laughable on his aristocratic features if it didn’t make him look like his sixteen-year-old self.

“It gave me a headache sometimes, made me restless. I would unplug everything when I needed some peace and quiet. But I couldn’t do that at the Wards, the light was always on, always humming. It drove me to the edge of insanity.” Harry shook his head, the mere memory of the sound making his skin crawl. He repressed the urge to roughly rub his arms in an effort to hide the evidence of his shudder.

“That’s pathetic,” Malfoy mused, not bothering to jot any of it down. Harry blustered and puffed up in indignation. It wasn’t his fault he was more attentive than others. He opened his mouth to throw an insult back at Malfoy when the other continued, “Magic is quiet.”

Harry deflated, almost irritated that Malfoy hadn’t meant him; he would have so liked to move past this unsettling truce.

“Mostly, I suppose. My wand’s not,” he thought about his wand, still hidden within Malfoy’s pocket. Well, not his wand, but that was entirely beside the point.

“Dogwood.” Was all Harry gave as an explanation when he was met with silent confusion. Malfoy nodded as though he had known all along. Dogwood was notorious for making significant noise while casting. Pranksters in their own right, always preparing for a show. Why Harry had picked this one, he didn’t know. He had gone by instinct, not rational thought.

“Right. An exception to the rule.” Harry rolled his eyes at that. “Anything else you remember or can think off?”

"Well, it would make sense for it to be situated outside of town. It would be challenging to keep such an operation secret in the middle of London."

“Not with magic it wouldn’t be.” Malfoy interjected at that.

“I am not defending electricity or saying it is better than magic, Malfoy.” Irritation spiked within Harry; this was ridiculous. It would be useless to tell Malfoy anything else if he was focusing on the unimportant.

“You have spent a decade in the muggle world, it is reasonable to suspect that you do.” Malfoy scribbled something onto the parchment, one hand waving away Harry’s words carelessly.

“I’ve spent nearly two and a half decades in the muggle world,” Harry corrected him. “I grew up amongst muggles until I was eleven. Yet, I am not comparing magic to electricity nor am I debating their merits with you at this time. I thought you were supposed to be helping me. You are not. So, give me my wand and let me leave.” Harry had enough. He pushed himself from the desk and expectantly held out his hand for his wand. He carefully hid the cringe of pain when he accidentally jerked his shoulder in his anger.

“Wait, Potter. No need for haste. I did promise to offer my assistance.” Malfoy stood as well and extended a hand in a placating matter. A hint of panic briefly flitting across his face but was expertly hidden within a fraction of a second. It all felt rather suspicious, deepening Harry's inclination to run. Yet, Malfoy made no motion to retrieve his wand and return it.

“I shall furnish it to you promptly upon acquiring a lead. Agreed?” It did little to soothe him. Why, out of all individuals, would Malfoy be so keen on keeping him here? Why would he attempt to broker a deal?

Instinct urged him to flee, but to where, he wasn’t certain. Returning to the House in London seemed unwise, as he was sure the muggles were anticipating that move and were likely keeping watch by now. Going to Hermione's place and potentially endangering her and the girls was not an option either.

A sharp pang of guilt coursed through him as he realized she must be anxiously searching for him, and he hadn't even considered sending her a note.

He wondered if Ron had looked for him as well. Surely, he must have seen Ginny’s clock arm fall when she died and known they had suffered a tragedy.

Grief threatened to suffocate him, and he struggled to breathe. Harry thought of the Weasley’s; they had already lost enough children. And they likely didn’t even known what happened to her, how Ginny had died protecting her children. Was there even a body left for them to find, or had the muggles taken the evidence of their crime as well?

Malfoy's appearance shifted, taking on a rather formless and mottled quality; it took Harry a moment to discern that he was crying. Again.

Thick tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and traced cold streaks down his cheeks. He lost balance and heavily sat back in his seat. It felt awkward, and the situation became even more so when Malfoy rose, circled the desk, and knelt before Harry.

A consoling hand gently rested on his knee, applying the slightest pressure. It offered comfort when it shouldn't have. Perhaps because it had been so long since touch had been gentle and filled with remorse, rather than intending to inflict pain or probe for weaknesses.

“I am so very sorry for the loss of your wife.” Malfoy mumbled soothingly, his voice hushed and sincere. The sincerity would have caught Harry of guard if he weren’t enveloped in grief like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“I can't fathom the pain of losing a spouse, and it's a cruel twist of fate to burden you, of all people, with such a loss. You've already given so much.”

This did jolt him out of his sorrow, surprised by Malfoy's acknowledgment of his sacrifices. Malfoy, who had rejected everything Harry had given during eighth year and undone all that Harry had fought so hard for in a single moment—a decision fueled by the desire for power.

Harry didn't bother correcting Malfoy's misunderstanding about Ginny; it was inconsequential to him. Instead, Harry allowed himself to be once again torn apart by the tidal wave of despair, a whirlwind of emotions oscillating between grief, anger, and hatred. Nausea gripped him.

Fingers found themselves around Malfoy’s frail neck, pale skin under sickly skin and he squeezed, thumbs pressing deep into the pulse points. He could feel the man’s blood quickening, adrenaline coursing through the veins. Malfoy's eyes were wide, pale gray, filled with shock. He hadn't anticipated Harry's anger and desire for revenge when placing himself in such a trusting position.

“Potter.” Malfoy choked out, tears forming in his eyes from the pressure around his neck. His hands came to grip Harry’s, to rip them away, but with Harry crouching above him, weight supported by his hands, he held the advantage.

He ignored the harm to his healing body, the pain was almost unbearable, warring in equal measure with his hatred.

“Why did you do it, Malfoy.” Harry spat, fury burning in his eyes and Malfoy’s widened further in response. He was shuddering, gasping underneath him and it reminded Harry so very much of their teenage years. Their fights. His dreams.

“Do…..what….?” Malfoy pressed out, nails tearing at Harry’s skin, drawing blood. Harry didn’t care. He glared at the pathetic man, noting the flushed redness of his face, the burst blood vessel in his right eye, staining the white an ugly pink. An unsightly contrast against his grey irises.

“You know WHAT!” Harry screamed, he vaguely realized Pippy had apparated into the study, wailing shrill and ripping on her ears in distress.

“You resurrected Voldemort. I know it was you! You undid everything. For what? Power?? Money? Revenge?” Spittle flew with each accusation and Harry, consumed by rage, saw red—determined to kill Malfoy, with or without a wand.

“I…did…..not….do…..for…..Potter. Please. Can’t. Breathe!” Malfoy’s eyes began to roll backward, his hands dropping limply from Harry's grip as his consciousness slipped away.

“Harry Potter, Sir! You absolutely must NOT!” Pippy's desperate scream cut through the chaos. He felt the thud of something hard hit the back of his head and Harry recoiled as if burned, releasing Malfoy abruptly. The man gasped and writhed on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks, and coughs wracking his chest.

Gods. This wasn't what he had intended.

But it was. A vicious voice reminded him.

Not like this, though. Harry wasn't a murderer.

But he was.

Not on purpose!

Yes, on purpose. He had killed Dr. Curie; he had killed the guard.

To escape! Another voice in his head sought justification, appeasement. But Harry knew it wasn't enough. He had killed someone, and he had almost killed Malfoy.

Doubled over, he retched, the breakfast from only half an hour ago returning in an acidic spew that tasted as horrid as his guilt.

“Master is coming.” Pippy whined, big round eyes trained on Malfoy, who had his own hands wrapped protectively around his neck, back pressed against the desk, chest heaving in frantic breaths.

“Go.” He rasped, voice unfamiliar and rough. Painful.

“Take him to his rooms. I’ll deal with this.”

Before Harry could comprehend what was being said, Pippy grabbed him by the hand and reappeared with him two rooms over. He swayed and toppled to the floor, his knees aching from the impact and his wounds burning.

The metallic scent of copper hung in the air, and desperation welled up as he noticed blood seeping through the bandages, the wet silk of his shirt clinging to his skin. He deserved this. What had happened to him?

A lot. A lot had happened.

"Mister Harry Potter, Sir, is to stay in his rooms for now. It'd be best if Masters may calm down first and for Mister Harry Potter as well." Pippy nodded authoritatively and popped away.

Alone and with the door securely locked, silencing charms wove through the walls, making Harry officially trapped. This time, he couldn't even blame Malfoy.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What in the infernal abyss happened?" The Dark Lord seethed. He had been in a meeting with the Hogwarts Board of Directors, engaged in another tiresome dispute over the curriculum, when he was abruptly assailed by a wave of panic so intense that it felt like an iron grip constricting his very throat, leaving him gasping for breath.

He had startled the Directors, skillfully masking his distress with rage, and had promptly dismissed them, ensuring they departed none the wiser. Yet, despite his outward composure, the panic coursing through him remained unabated.

For the agony was not his own; it belonged to Draco. A muted echo of the profound emotions his spouse was enduring at that very moment, reverberating down the bond involuntarily. Whatever had transpired, had been significant enough to weaken Draco’s careful Occlumency shields.

Without hesitation, Voldemort had turned and Apparated with such urgency that he nearly tore through the wards surrounding the Manor upon his arrival.

He found Draco in the study, huddled in a fetal position, ragged breaths heaving in and out of his chest. Sobs shook his slender frame, and he appeared so fragile that Voldemort’s heart nearly wrenched. It smelled of tears, fear, and bile.

His feet brought him closer, robes billowing behind him as he knelt before Draco and placed a soothing hand on the man’s rapidly rising chest.

“Take a deep breath, my Heart,” he said carefully; concealing any hint of his anger. He gently grabbed Draco's hand, which was clenched into a tight fist, and delicately unfurled his fingers. Maintaining one hand on Draco's, he lifted the unfurled hand and pressed it flat against his own chest.

Consciously, he imposed a regular breathing pattern, encouraging Draco to synchronize with his rhythm.

"That's it, deep breath in and out. Take your time," Voldemort urged. He observed as Draco gradually relaxed, his eyes closing in deep concentration on Voldemort's chest rising and falling. Voldemort scrutinized the man on the floor before him, and a renewed surge of fury rolled through him. Draco winced as the remnants flooded back through the bond, and Voldemort gritted his teeth to regain composure.

Draco bore red markings on his throat, rapidly bleeding into an angry purple. The shape of hands marred the beautiful expanse of skin from Draco's Adam's apple to collarbone. His face was flushed, his eyes red from tears and burst blood vessels.

He looked dreadful, and Voldemort couldn’t help an explosion of fury, the anger consuming him. Draco’s whimpers were little more than a hum in the background.

Someone had harmed what was his. Someone had dared to touch his Heart and leave his mark on the Dark Lord’s right hand, the King’s consort. Someone had tried to kill Draco and would die for the attempt. Not many spoke to Lord Malfoy disrespectfully and walked away sane. No one had dared to harm him for certain and instantaneous death.

And at this point in time, there was only one who might dare to lay his hands on Voldemort's possession: Harry Potter.

Voldemort was shaking, unsuccessful in reigning in his hatred for the boy. He made to stand, to break down the door to the Green Room. Kill the bastard by throttling him himself, no point in casting the Killing Curse.

But Draco felt his intentions before he managed a step and pulled the Dark Lord back with an iron grip on his cloak.

“No.” Draco rasped, the sound of his voice made Voldemort shudder, it was raw and rough. “Potter was reasonably angry; he didn’t mean to kill me.”

“What do you mean, reasonably angry?” He stared at Draco, incredulously, and hissed. “You will tell me what happened, this instant, or so help me Salazar Slytherin himself, I will skin that boy.”

“You know what occurred. I betrayed him, and his anger is justified, regardless of my motivations.” He struggled to speak, pain contorting his red face.

“Your guilt doesn't justify his actions, Draco Malfoy. He has no right to kill you for what you had to do.”

“He asked me why I did it. Merlin, Tom, you don’t understand. You will never understand.”

“Explain it. Because if you don’t, I see no reason why I shouldn’t rid the world of Harry Potter.”

Draco locked eyes with him, seemingly searching for the truth and finding it. He would kill Harry Potter. The Wizarding World would not need to know he had been here in the first place.

“Imagine if you had nothing in this world beside me. I was the only thing you could count as family,” Draco started, somewhat redundantly.

“You are the only thing in my world, my only family,” Voldemort’s face screwed up in confusion.

“Right, exactly. Now imagine a man, Potter perhaps, came along and killed me violently, before your very eyes. And after finally – after endless battles and loss and pain – you had been able to take revenge. To kill Potter for the crimes he committed against you.” Draco took a labored breath. Voldemort waited impatiently, he still saw no reason not to kill Harry Potter.

“You speak for his accomplices, for Hermione Granger, at her trials, because, in the end, she helped you. But then she turns around and resurrects Harry Potter for little discernable reason, undoing all the sacrifices you have made. How would that make you feel?” Voldemort contemplated the possibility that the inquiry was steeped in rhetoric.

A virtuoso of emotions, he maintained meticulous dominion over these ostensibly inconsequential nuances, a realm that Draco was astutely aware he had mastered. His repertoire of feelings encompassed fury, ennui, mirth, and, following the return of his soul, a tenderness reserved exclusively for Draco.

“I would kill the mudblood.” He finally said, granting Draco an answer after an expectant silence stretched between them.

Draco clicked his tongue in annoyance. “We don’t use that name anymore, Tom.”
Voldemort carefully hid his irritation, Draco’s newfound and inexplicable interest in equality, as he termed it, was a point of contention between them.

“But the point stands: you would kill her.” Draco continued. “You are Harry Potter; you've caused him more pain than I can enumerate right now, and I resurrected you. I had my reasons, but Harry Potter is unaware of them.”

“I am nothing like Harry Potter.” He seethed, though he remained where he was, securely within Draco’s grasp. His husband’s face softened at that; a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Voldemort hated to admit it, and he would never do so out loud, but the love within those shining eyes melted his resolve.

“You are more like him than either of you wish to admit. Don’t hurt him.”

“Is that a wish? Or a command, my Heart.” He settled himself before Draco, hands cupping his cheeks and white fingers sliding to the bruises on his neck.

“A wish?” Draco answered, a hopeful look in his gaze. Voldemort smiled wickedly, glint returning to his eyes.

“Ugh, a command.” He revised and rolled his bloodshot eyes and winced as he moved. Voldemort sobered.

"Leave him be. I am capable of handling Harry Potter on my own." Draco's eyes pinned him, narrowed and suspicious. It was a clear warning, and Voldemort sighed. Very well, he would heed his spouse's command.

“If he dares to lay a hand on you again….I will ensure the end of the Savior.” He warned through gritted teeth. Draco's smile flourished across his face like a spring's peony; Voldemort was completely under this man's influence, and he knew it.

Voldemort gently caressed the purpling skin underneath the pads of his fingers, careful for his sharp nails not to nick the skin, and let his magic seep gently into the injury. The bruises faded and the evidence of Potter’s abuse disappeared. The Dark Lord would still hold a grudge.

Gathering Draco in his arms, despite the man’s protests, he Apparated them both to the kitchens. The House-elves scattered, avoiding the risk of being inadvertently trampled by their abrupt arrival. High pitched squeaks ricocheted from the marble as the critters took in Voldemort’s serpentine features.

He harbored a disdain for the creatures, deeming them inferior to wizards, particularly those of his stature. They existed solely to serve, having been bred and destined to be bound to wizarding families.

However, his husband held a soft spot for them, insisting they were his friends and employees. Voldemort no longer contested that point.

Recognizing the futility of debating with Draco once his mind was made up, Voldemort, at Draco's request, had enacted legislation to ensure kinder treatment for the beasts, including the option for clothing if they so desired.

In memory of Debby, whatever that had been, Draco had taken it a step further. He had insisted on compensating their own House-elves and treating them with courtesy. Voldemort had been as horrified by Draco’s insanity as the elves themselves, though he had refrained from wailing.

Eventually, and to his shame, Voldemort had relented and followed suit, if only to escape Draco’s vitriol every time he had shown cruelty to one of those things.

“Kripsy. Please serve us some sage tea with honey. Lord Malfoy suffers a sore throat and could use a soothing balm.” He gingerly lowered Draco onto the bench of a corner table and received a fond eyeroll as reward. Voldemort bent down and softly pressed his thin lips to Draco’s, his tongue tasting the residue of tears and fear on his skin.

"You frightened me," he admitted as he settled into his seat, a cup of tea already prepared before him. The aroma was, at best, intriguing, and the taste was abhorrent. However, the undeniable healing properties made it worth enduring. If Draco had to endure it, so would Voldemort. After all, shared pain was half the pain.

“I know.” Draco said, pulling a face at the first sip. “I am sorry.”

“Not yours to apologize for,” He retorted darkly, though he raised his hands placatingly when Draco made to speak in admonishment.

“He will apologize,” Draco began. "Knowing him, he's currently eating himself up with guilt. He can't bear the thought of killing people. He'll carry those deaths from last week with him forever."

Voldemort frowned. "We all do; it fractures the soul," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but that's not what I'm getting at. Harry Potter feels guilt for things he has done, hasn't done, and never held in his power to do," Draco spoke of him as though he revered and pitied him for it.

“Hmmm, you speak of remorse.” His finger tapped the side of his cooling cup. He hadn’t taken a sip and quickly rectified that by taking a big, sickening gulp. It was revolting and sweet. He hated it. He took another.

“Indeed. Remorse is to feel guilt for what you have done to others for the other person’s sake.”

"You said Harry Potter and I are alike. I don't experience remorse," Voldemort said, deep within his own thoughts.

He regretted choices, yes, but because he had made the wrong choice. Choices that had negative consequences on himself or his possessions. He regretted allowing Nagini at the Battle of Hogwarts, for now, she was lost to him.

He regretted that he had tortured Draco for the pain it had caused his husband, for the scars it had left on the person he had come to covet. But his feeling was not one of remorse; he regretted his choice because Draco was his possession, an extension of the Dark Lord – he told himself and found it to be of sound logic.

He regretted killing Harry Potter, for it had killed his Horcrux.

“How fortunate that you never had to heal your soul yourself, then.” His husband said and smiled at him as though he knew something Voldemort didn’t. It was truly irritating.

A hum was all he said in response.

The teacups disappeared with a soft clink and Draco smiled at him.

“Fancy a walk?” He asked and stood, no longer unsteady on his feet.

“I have to return to the Ministry, my Heart.” He responds gently, but Draco’s smile did not waver.

“Oh, they can wait. They don’t move quick enough anyhow.” Draco’s smile was addictive, and Voldemort’s resolve proved little resistance. “Come on, a quick stride through the gardens. The rose bushes are in bloom.” Draco’s hand reached for his own, unafraid of the repulsive, scaley skin or deadly nails that Voldemort wore with pride.

“Very well. Though, I hate to ask for you’ll have to change. Your clothes reek of bile.”

“Oh.” Draco’s cheeks colored red at that. “Potter relieved himself of his breakfast after coming to his senses. I believe Pippy spelled it away.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste and quickly moved to return to their rooms. Voldemort lingered, requesting a slice of lemon tart from Kripsy. A smile, revealing too many teeth, adorned his face as the elf complied with shaking hands.

Chapter Text

Pacing the room like a caged panther, Harry felt restlessness and anxiety gnawing at him. Time slipped through his fingers, and he couldn't pinpoint how long he had been confined. It seemed like several agonizing hours. The silence wrapped around him, an impenetrable barrier sealing him in.

He acknowledged that he deserved every moment of it. The momentary loss of control, the desperate act of trying to strangle Malfoy—it was something he couldn't easily justify.

Disgust, thick and greasy, threatened to drown him.

Regret for what he had become—someone capable of toying with the idea of murder. The contrast was stark; Harry Potter of seventh year, the boy who willingly sacrificed himself for others, who gave his last breath to secure a future for his loved ones, now teetered on the edge of a mental breakdown. If only he could see himself now, with multiple lives hanging damningly over his own.

Harry pondered whether a part of him, the compassion and love he once had, died with him.

“Maybe I am going insane,” he mumbled quietly to no one. “Or did I leave a fragment of my humanity in limbo?”

The echoes of his past haunted him, and he wondered if the boy who willingly faced death for others still existed within the tangled mess of emotions and actions that now defined him.

As much as it pained him and his pride, he would have to apologize to a Malfoy.

Hour by hour, within the unforgiving walls of his confinement, Harry's anxiety deepened. The exchange of one prison for another fueled a growing fear that clawed at him, left him breathless, a stark reminder of his powerlessness.

Desperate attempts to call out yielded nothing from Pippy or Malfoy. And only when a hesitant knock intruded upon the stillness, did he feel like he could breathe again.

Harry stood still in the middle of the room, unable to open the door even if he had the will to do so. He had tried for half an hour, after all.

Malfoy appeared in the doorway, a bit awkward and uncertain, as if hesitant to intrude on Harry's pacing. Harry's eyes scanned over the man's body, instinctively checking for the bruises he had inflicted. Relief washed over him as he noticed they had been healed.

"I apologize, Malfoy," Harry said, surprising both himself and Malfoy. "My actions were wrong, and I am sorry for having hurt you." The words lingered in the air, and Malfoy seemed to contemplate his sincerity.

“I would like to propose a truce for the moment being, Potter.” Malfoy's voice was hoarse, it still must cause him pain to speak.

It was not quite an acceptance of Harry’s apology, but he would take it as an attempt to reconcile. Harry studied his hosts face, anxious to find any threat or deception in the edges of his expression.

Though cautious, Malfoy appeared sincere as he stepped further into the room, gesturing toward the seating arrangement with an open palm. Harry reluctantly followed suit, lowering himself into the armchair opposite Malfoy.

Sitting was uncomfortable; the bandages on his shoulder felt cold and sticky from the fresh injuries. Harry made sure not to lean against the velvet, wary of staining it red.

Malfoy noticed his discomfort and concern bled through the apprehension on his face. It made Harry uneasy. Empathy was not an emotion he knew from a man who once embodied selfishness and cruelty.

"What do you propose, Malfoy?" Harry asked impatiently, diverting the conversation to safer topics. He shifted, attempting to find a more comfortable sitting position, one further away from Malfoy.

"I will return your wand. However, you must promise not to embark on this rescue mission alone. And you give me your word that you will refrain from harming me." Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes avoiding direct contact. Harry sensed he wasn’t quite done speaking and remained quiet.

"And, in time, you will listen to my reasons for resurrecting Lord Voldemort." He cautiously continued.

Before Harry could explode, Malfoy interrupted him swiftly. "Without hexing or otherwise hurting me."

Malfoy knew he was asking a lot, a raised blond eyebrow betrayed Malfoy's conviction that Harry would make no such promises.

"I can promise not to kill you," Harry conceded easily. "But I can't promise I won't want to break your bloody nose."

Malfoy mulled it over, idly tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“I accept that stipulation, if I can extend such a promise to my spouse as well. And if we make it a vow.”

“So, for the promise of my wand and a story, I vow not to kill you or your spouse?”

“Correct, Potter.” Malfoy's voice held no malice though Harry was hesitant.

There was an undercurrent suspicion, something he couldn't quite grasp. His instincts were telling him to decline, to make a different deal. But he kept returning to the pivotal factor that in order to find his children he needed access to his wand—or any wand.

“Fine, I will make a vow.” As though eager to proceed, Malfoy quickly leaned to the side and produced the wand that had once led Harry to freedom. Holding it contemplatively for a moment, Malfoy extended it to Harry, hilt pointed towards him.

Harry leaned forward gingerly, grasping the scuffed wand with his right hand. The wand, though not hostile, seemed exasperated at being returned, greeting him like one would an annoying and distant relative. Its wood hummed reluctantly, an unpleasant static building as Harry's thumb explored the dips and nicks in the hilt. It didn't disobey him, illuminating the twilight with a crackling Lumos when he cast the spell in a whisper.

“The vow, Potter.” Malfoy's hand extended in expectation, confident that Harry would do the honorable thing and accept their bargain. Cursing himself, Harry did as expected.

Holding the borrowed wand aloft, he briefly paused.

“Don’t we need a witness?”

“No, Potter,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It helps to have a witness, it strengthens the vow, but two competent wizards are capable of forming an unbreakable vow without a witness. You are a competent wizard now, are you not, Potter?” The taunt irritated Harry, but he simply motioned for Malfoy to continue.

“Will you, Harry Potter, promise not to cause, conspire, or encourage the death of myself or my spouse.”

“I will.”

“And will you promise to consult me in the rescue of your children.”

“I will.”

Harry bound their hands together, magic zipped through the room as its light flickered erratically.

“What a curious wand you have. It doesn’t like you much, does it?” Malfoy’s face was a mixture of relief, mischief, and exhaustion.

“It doesn’t… But it works for now.”

“Where did you get it?” Malfoy looked at him curiously as though that question had been nagging at him for a while.

“I stole it, or borrowed it, if I can ever find the owner.” Harry contemplated. Malfoy raised an eyebrow in question.

“I watched a nurse sneak a bunch of wands into a storage room.” Harry tried to remember, he had been very groggy at the time, still under the influence of anesthesia.

It had ignited a renewed spark within him, a hopefulness that he could turn the tables and eventually get his hands onto one of those wands.

“At first, I was just confused, wondering why she'd need so many wands. But it dawned on me—they were likely taken from new arrivals. Wizards who, like me, had been trapped by muggles. So, I resolved to break into the room and steal the next best wand.”

He had waited for weeks, had eventually managed to nick a scalpel from the operating room and hide it among the bandages. It had cut him before he had managed to extract it from the wrappings. He idly moved the pads of his fingers along a small scar along his right arm. It was the length of a little finger and had been deep. Fortunately, it had blended right in with the cuts the muggles had made that week and they had remained none the wiser.

He had carefully hidden the scalpel in the thin mattress in his cell. It had been sheer luck they hadn’t conducted one of their random searches during that time.

He told Malfoy as much.

“I eventually broke out of my room. I still thank Merlin daily that Sirius had the foresight to teach me how to pick a lock without magic. I would have been truly screwed without it.” He nodded carefully.

Malfoy had leaned forward, one hand cupping his chin, elbow resting on the armchair. He looked so much younger, captivated by Harry’s story. As though he cared how Harry had gotten here, how he had escaped. It spurned Harry on.

“I ended up sneaking out into that corridor, but I couldn’t remember which door. I was in so much agony, I was afraid I would lose consciousness before reaching the wand room.” He shook his head, remembering the sharp breaths he had tried to repress, the freezing cold of the tiles below his feet that had caused his teeth to chatter.

Malfoy waited patiently for him to continue; his face now illuminated by a small fire that flared to life in the fireplace. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, leaving behind a darkening sky and growing shadows.

Malfoy’s eyes seemed to pierce through the veils of Harry’s hesitance, their steely gaze reflecting the dance of flames that surrounded them. His blond eyelashes sparkled like snowflakes in the light, caressing his cheeks with featherlight touch every time he closed them to blink. Harry, for the fraction of a second, forgot to speak and instead watched the play of the light on the other man’s face.

“How did you break into the storage room?” Malfoy asked, beckoning him to keep going, a hand leisurely waving away Harry’s contemplations.

“Umm. The scalpel. I must have picked ten locks before finding the right room. They were stored in containers. Hundreds of wands collecting dust like kindle, firewood waiting to be burned. Some were broken, others looked like they had been pried apart, sewn into pieces. There was one box that held just a handful of cores, ripped from their wands.”

“That’s barbaric and primitive,” Malfoy’s nose wrinkled a bit as his expression changed to disgust.

“To them it’s just wood, but I assume they wanted to find out how we conduct magic through a wand. Not very successfully, I hope.”

“Why did you pick this one?” Malfoy cocked his head to the side, looking at the wand in Harry’s grasp. Harry followed his gaze and studied the wand with its fissures, scuffs, and markings. It wasn’t a pretty wand.

“I don’t know.” Harry didn’t, he had asked himself that many a times since picking this wand. “I suppose it called to me, though it must regret its choice since it isn’t very fond of me.” He laughed lightly.

“I heard footsteps, I hurried to find one that was whole, it lay near the top of a bucket. It was dusty and a little grimy but seemed to work fine when I cast an Episkey. Well, it healed the worst of it. I just assumed my magic wasn’t the strongest.”

“Were you found?”

“No, the footsteps passed the storage room, I held my breath for longer than I should have. I was so very dizzy when I finally left the room and went to find the exit. I couldn’t think clearly. I ended up killing a person, likely two.” He remembered the horrible crunch he had heard right before he had finally succeeded in apparating the second time.

He cringed, shaking off the guilt that gnawed on his insides. Though he also couldn’t bear to think of what could have happened had he failed to rip apart the wards. Or worse, if he hadn’t managed to pry the man off himself and accidentally side-alonged the muggle. They would have been splinched to death.

Malfoy just waited; his face devoid of judgment. Resurrecting the Dark Lord seemed to have dulled his queasiness about death, Harry contemplated, trying to suppress the bitterness he felt. There was no revenge to exact on Malfoy anyway.

"I stabbed a doctor who had worked on me a few times," Harry continued, the memory of the wand protruding from her empty eye socket induced waves of nausea. "I also killed a guard when we fell through the window. That was shortly before I apparated and landed here." Harry pressed a palm to his eyes, ashamed to be admitting this before the one person who would gladly take any ammunition to cause Harry pain. He jerked slightly when, once again, a careful hand landed on his knee—Malfoy's curious new habit, it seemed.

"It was self-defense. You had no other choice," Malfoy soothed, pulling his hand away after a final squeeze. It felt strangely comforting.

"Maybe for the guard. But Doctor Curie posed no direct threat to me; that was manslaughter at the very least." Harry knew the intricacies of muggle law, thanks to one of Hermione's many lectures.

"She did, perhaps not imminently, but eventually. She was your captor, your tormentor. Your actions were justified."

"Perhaps," Harry muttered, wanting to divert the conversation from his guilt. Or defenses, as Malfoy insisted.

"Thank you for not letting me bleed to death. No one would have known if you had done nothing."

“You didn’t deserve that, nor did the Wizarding World. We are at war with the muggles, even if 99% of them aren’t aware of that yet, thank Salazar. But still, we are outnumbered. Muggles are a danger many underestimate. They are conducting a witch-hunt against us. More and more wizards have disappeared over the last few months. We need you; we need the Savior to return.” His eyes were pleading, corners of his mouth turned downward as though begging was disgraceful.

“I am no one’s savior. I left that role behind me over a decade ago. I don’t want to be the golden boy anymore.”

“You won’t have to be. You don’t have to play the hero. But you know more about the muggle world than any of us. You said it, you spend more than two-thirds of your life amongst them.” He was outright begging now, his voice taking on an imploring tone. “Be our consultant, act as an independent contractor for the Wizengamot, we will pay you whatever you like.”

“I don’t have need for money. I need my children back. That is my priority. Ask me again after I have them back.”

“Very well, I will. Wizarding kind would benefit immensely from your expertise, Potter.” He said again, finally leaning back, leaving his eager position behind in favor of comfort. He gracefully folded his hands over his knee, one leg over the other.

Perhaps there was another bargain to be made: His children’s safety for his support to the Wizarding World. He had apparently morphed further into a man of Slytherin over his years.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats until Malfoy quickly stood, surprising Harry and reached out a hand. He stared at it without comprehending its meaning. Malfoy impatiently waved it before his face.

“Come on, it’s time for supper. And your bandages could use a change. They are filthy.” He shook his head in exasperation and finally grasped Harry on his own accord and carefully pulled him into a stand, mindful not to jostle his left side.

Harry trailed behind Malfoy with a cautious distance, cursing the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat each time Malfoy touched him. The man was his enemy, after all. And married.

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

They returned to the same dining room in which they had eaten breakfast earlier in the day, an eternity ago, and Harry was surprised to see that someone had already taken up residence at the table.

The woman was beautiful and elegant.

She carried herself with regal pride, her head held high in a manner reminiscent of graceful royalty. Her brown hair was gathered into a loose braid, with singular curls escaping to frame her face.

Draped in a green silk dress with a low neckline and long sleeves, she exuded an aura that spoke of power, intelligence, and the refined manners befitting a Lady of the House—No doubt someone like Malfoy would deem appropriate to be his spouse.

She stood as she saw Malfoy and Harry enter the room and purposefully rounded the table to cross the space. Gingerly, she planted a loving kiss onto Malfoy’s cheek and hastily wiped at the stain of her lipstick when she pulled away.

Her giggle was carefree and reminiscent of a much younger girl. It brought back memories of the Great Hall and Harry recalled he had seen her there, at the Slytherin table.

She was Daphne’s younger sister. A gentle girl for all Harry knew.

“Darling,” she said, posh accent strong and familiar. “I am so glad you are finally joining me. Here I thought I would allow you the honor of dining with me and you fail to show up.” She clicked her tongue, though her eyes sparkled with affection and her voice carried a hint of mischief. Astoria was teasing, Harry realized with a start.

“As if your presence is ever an honor, I would rather dine in the kitchens with the house-elves.” Malfoy teased back.

“Oh! You!” She lightly slapped him on the arm and turned toward Harry with a pleasant smile.

“It is good to see you conscious and walking. I wasn’t so sure you would pull through after all. You slept quite a while. How are you feeling? I see you managed to pull your injuries already.” Her chastise was clear though gentle. Her warm hands found Harry’s shoulders and she carefully guided him to one of the closest chairs.

“Please take this off.” She said, her tone stern and practical, motioning to his shirt and summoning a bag. The brown leather satchel hopped cheerfully into the room, as though happy to be of service.

Harry blushed; he hadn’t anticipated being undressed before Malfoy for the second time in two days. The man had most definitely seen enough of him.

"Quit dawdling; I need to ensure you don't get an infection," Astoria's voice held the no-nonsense tone of a doctor. Hesitant, Harry complied, unbuttoning his shirt and freeing his arms and shoulders before allowing it to fall balled up into his lap.

Pippy popped in and out without much of an acknowledgement, taking the ruined garment with her. Without anything to hold in his hands, Harry twisted his fingers nervously into the fabric of his pants.

Cleaning charms swept over his skin and soft hands gently pried the bandages off his shoulder, the cold blood having dried in places and pulling painfully on the injured flesh. He bit his tongue and refused to let a whimper betray his discomfort.

“Oh, Mr. Potter.” Astoria shook her head in exasperation and banished the soiled bandages with a flick of her wand. Her pretty face was scrunched up in concentration.

“Please call me Harry.” He said instead of acknowledging her admonishment. She looked up in surprise and smiled at him, a cheeky grin that landed on Malfoy a moment later – as though she had won a competition.

"Then you may call me Astoria, Harry." She laughed and turned to her bag.

Harry tried not to blush as he realized he unconsciously already had. He was surprised by the Slytherin’s easy nature. She was easy to like.

"Now, hold still. I want to clean the wound and apply a salve. It should keep it from becoming infected." Astoria summoned a bowl of water and began wiping at the wound. A sharp hiss of pain made its way through Harry's clenched teeth.

"Draco, Dear, would you be so kind and grab Harry a pain potion?" It wasn’t until she addressed him directly that Malfoy stirred. Harry looked at the man closely and noticed the white pallor of his skin, the sweat that dampened the edges of the man’s hairline. His eyes were transfixed by the blood seeping from Harry’s bullet wound.

“Malfoy? You alright?” Harry asked as Malfoy swayed gently in place. Harry was afraid Malfoy would faint in the next second and made to stand, in case he had to catch the man. But Astoria pulled him back down and ordered him to stay seated.

"He doesn’t like blood, Harry. I’m sure you remember, but an attack in 6th year traumatized him."

The memory of that fateful night struck Harry like a Bludger to the gut, leaving him breathless. He found himself back in the dimly lit bathroom, the taste of regret lingering on his tongue. The image of Draco Malfoy, pale and bloodied, haunted his mind.

The Sectumsempra curse, learned from the Half-Blood Prince's book, had lashed out, leaving its cruel mark on Malfoy's chest. The bathroom had echoed with pained gasps, the metallic scent of blood filling the air.

Astoria's mention felt like a judgment, a spotlight on a dark moment Harry wished to bury deep within himself. Her expression provided no clues, leaving him to confront the internal turmoil on his own. Guilt clawed at his conscience, urging him to acknowledge the wrong he had done. Yet, a stubborn pride held him back from offering the unspoken apology. Two apologies in one day when Malfoy had offered him none seemed to unbalance the scale too much for Harry’s pride.

Malfoy didn’t acknowledge either of them, his gaze distant and glassy as it was fixated on the wound.

“Darling,” Astoria intervened with a gentle push, her concern evident. “Would you please grab me a pain potion? Harry will appreciate it.”

In a trance, the ghost of a man took unsteady steps away, exiting the room. Harry watched him go, wondering how Malfoy had saved him a few days prior, despite Harry being covered in blood.

He looked down on himself, inspected the bullet wound as Astoria wiped away the blood that has trickled down his chest and abdomen. Harry sucked in a harsh breath when she went over the tender flesh. She didn’t apologize, just repeated her administrations with clinical precision.

It was an eternity, Harry felt, before Malfoy returned, potion bottles in hand. He looked less peaky, as though he had taken a detour to wash his face and gather his wits about him.

He avoided looking at Harry when he handed him the first bottle, a golden-coppery liquid swirling within. The second bottle, one of purple liquid, Harry was familiar with, and he cringed.

Astoria thanked Malfoy and took the purple potion, opening the cork and dabbing the purple potion onto his wounds. It smoked and stung, like alcohol to a papercut, and she pressed her wand to the open injuries, spelling them shut. They weren’t gone; wounds like that took time to heal, regardless of the mediwitch’s capabilities. But they closed, and within a few moments, Harry could take a deep breath.

“Drink that,” she ordered, motioning to the golden potion.

As Harry raised the golden potion to his lips, the metallic aroma filled his senses. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at Astoria for reassurance.

"Go on, it will help with the pain and speed up the healing process," Astoria encouraged.

Harry nodded and took a deep breath before downing the potion in one go. It tasted bitter, leaving a tingling sensation on his tongue. Almost immediately, a soothing warmth spread through his chest, alleviating the sharp pain from the wounds. Harry felt the tension in his shoulders lessen, and he sighed in relief.

"Thank you," Harry expressed his genuine gratitude.

"You are most certainly welcome, Harry. Now, I suggest you eat something. And perhaps put on a shirt. And may I remind you to be a good, obedient patient and not to disturb your injuries again? I can only spell them shut so many times.” Her laugh trilled through the room, endearing herself to Harry even more.

“Yes, Ma’am!” He smiled at her lightly and quietly asked for Pippy to return his shirt.

The little house-elf appeared an arm-length before him, her nose wrinkled in disgust and revolt. “Pippy will not be returning Mr. Harry Potter’s shirt. Filthy it is. No, Pippy brings a clean shirt, yes, she will. A fitting shirt, not one of Mr. Harry Potter’s clothes. No taste.”

“Umm, ok?” Harry was taken aback by Pippy’s strong feelings on the matter. Searching, he looked up at Malfoy, but the latter was no help, simply shrugging his shoulders and grinning. Although still a little shaky.

Within seconds, Pippy had reappeared by his side, a shirt of silk folded gently in her hands. She held it out as she was comparing the blue to his skin tone and nodded satisfactorily. Carefully, Harry reached out, and the elf laid it into his hands as though it was a precious jewel.

“Yes, this will be working.” She nodded again, her ears flopping excitedly, and she popped out of existence again. Astoria reached around him and grabbed the fabric, gently helping guide Harry’s arms into the sleeves and moving to close the buttons.

“Oh, thank you. But I can do this myself,” Harry carefully pulled away and threaded the buttons himself, though with considerable effort.

“Kripsy?” Malfoy called, startling Harry. He had seated himself in his spot at the head of the table and beckoned Harry and Astoria to join him. Hesitantly, Harry followed, and settled into the spot he had taken earlier.

“Kripsy,” Malfoy continued, addressing the house-elf that promptly appeared with a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup, a plate of bread, and a pot of tea.

“Kripsy will be serving Mr. Harry Potter his dinner. Special soup it is, Master Malfoy says. Healing properties it has,” the elf declared proudly.

“Thanks, Kripsy. It smells good.” Harry smiled at the elf, who beamed back at him before setting the tray on the table in front of him.

“Enjoy, Mr. Harry Potter!” Kripsy chirped before popping away.

Astoria resumed her seat, giving both men a scrutinizing look. “Now, onto the more pressing matters. I hear you have family to rescue, Harry?”

All lightness escaped Harry, brought crashing back down to reality, the surrealism of the circumstances forgotten.

Chapter Text

Her nails tapped an irate rhythm onto the wood of the dining table, eyes steeled onto Draco’s form who carefully avoided her stare. It was rare that Astoria ever harbored discontent thoughts toward Draco, her best friend and greatest supporter.

But when she was, he was sure to know it.

Without him, she wouldn’t have stood against her family in her choice to pursue career over marriage, over family. His support and tutelage had gotten her not only through Hogwarts, but medical school as well.

In a way, he had even saved her life by allowing her to become independent, to choose a different path than her cursed ancestors. Women who had died during childbirth due to the curse befalling her lineage.

While Astoria would consider Draco a smart man, it was certainly not now. She watched with pain in her heart as Harry suffered at the mention of his children. It was not that Draco was at fault for it, no, but Draco naturally had the resources to provide Harry with the intel he may need to find the children.

She wasn’t daft, she knew the Dark Lord had his spies, his network to exploit and for Harry she would be happy to have someone like the Dark Lord in her back pocket like Draco did.

But Draco was afraid and with this fear, managed to balance on the edge of breaking his vow. She huffed at the man’s irritating stubbornness and pushed her plate of food away from her, the porcelain clattered against the silverware.

It was impossible to miss the immediate shift in Harry’s demeanor as shyness and self-consciousness turned to anger and desperation. His eyes took on the sharpness of a pain that she would hopefully never know. The pain, the culpability radiating off the man seemed to hold the power to shroud the room in dark shadows, to leech the color from every surface.

“Harry,” she started, but the man didn’t acknowledge that she had addressed him. With furrowed brows, he was so deeply entrenched within his own thoughts.

She wanted to reach out to him, place a comforting hand on his tense shoulder or take his hand and squeeze it gently. He had been awake for less than 48 hours. Fighting was an impossible, insurmountable expectation he shouldn’t burden himself with yet.

Astoria wished to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t failed them. But even she knew that words would do little at this point. Neither would it help to remind him that he was still recovering from severe trauma, that he had suffered life-threatening injuries.

Rationality held no place in this conversation and so she went for practicality instead.

“Harry,” she spoke again, a little louder this time, “what do you need from us so we may help you?” Harry looked at her, the agony shining clear as day within his green eyes.

Harry took a moment, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. "How much do you know about the witch-hunts?" he asked, his voice tinged with the raw edge still clear on his face.

Astoria nodded, her gaze shifting to Draco. He was the most knowledgeable on the subject – if Tom was not at the Manor. She raised a questioning eyebrow, silently prompting him to share his knowledge.

"We've identified at least three facilities where wizards are held for experimentation," Draco began, the grim topic visibly aging him as he grew tired and unhappy. "But there may be more undisclosed locations, like detention centers. Their whereabouts remain elusive."

Astoria watched Harry's eyes narrow slightly as he absorbed this information. "If we can figure out which facility I escaped from, we can eliminate it from our search and focus on the others."

Astoria nodded in agreement. "Even an educated guess would narrow down our options significantly."

Draco hesitated before adding, “Indeed, however, we would be making a guess, nonetheless.”

Harry sighed and finally pushed his meal aside as well, having taken not one bite. “Do you know of wizard children disappearing? Where they may be detained?”

“We haven't heard of wizard children disappearing,” Draco idly moved the food around on his plate and Astoria knew Kripsy would be scolding them all for their lack of appetite. “However,” Draco continued, “Muggleborn children have been vanishing before we can intervene."

Harry's eyes blazed with anger. "Voldemort must be reveling in this," he muttered, shooting a pointed look at Draco.

"The Regime changed its stance years ago," Draco responded carefully, his words chosen with precision. "Every magical child is crucial to our society's survival. Every child lost to us is a tragic blow to our future."

“Right...” The doubt in Harry’s voice was near palpable and Astoria couldn’t fault him for his suspicions. He had been shielding himself from the Wizarding World for thirteen years. He had missed a lot of progress the Wizarding World had seen under Draco’s influence.

"The Regime's changes have been significant," Draco tried again. "And while there are still many aspects that need improvement, there has been progress."

Harry studied Draco, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Progress under Voldemort's rule?" There was a mix of incredulity and bitterness in his tone, one Astoria couldn’t blame him for. She was very aware of Harry’s history with Tom.

Draco met Harry's gaze evenly. "Progress under a reformed leadership," he corrected. "The wizarding world has evolved, Harry. We're not the same as we were during the war."

Astoria interjected, trying to ease the tension. "Draco's been working tirelessly to ensure a better future for all magical beings, especially children."

Harry's expression softened a fraction, but the wariness remained. "I commend that, but how does this help us find my children?"

Draco took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what he was about to suggest. "There may be resources within the Regime that could aid us. Information, contacts, perhaps even assistance in our rescue mission."

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're suggesting we ask Voldemort for help?"

Draco hesitated, then nodded. "I'm suggesting we explore all options. Voldemort's power and influence could be instrumental in locating and freeing your children."

Harry's response was swift and filled with indignation. "Absolutely not," he declared, rising from his seat with a suddenness that made the table tremble. His hand grasped the edge, steadying himself as if the weight of his words bore physical force. "I refuse to hand my children over to Voldemort."

Draco's voice, though tense, carried a hint of urgency. "Voldemort has a vested interest in ensuring the safety of your children," he argued. "With the current challenges faced by the Wizarding Communities, your children’s safety could bring much-needed stability within the Wizengamot. It's a strategic move."

The incredulity in Harry's tone was cutting. "You would use my children as pawns in political maneuvering within the Wizengamot?" His breath came in ragged bursts, his anger no longer simmering just below the surface. "Damn it, Malfoy!”

Draco's gaze didn't waver, his words measured and deliberate. "Potter, I swore to help you find your children and I will do so by any means necessary. No child deserves to be in the position your children have found themselves in. Voldemort may see this as an opportunity to gain favor and stability in the Wizarding World."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his body trembling. "You're seriously considering this? After everything he's done?"

Astoria tried to keep her voice calm but firm. "Harry, please understand, Draco is not suggesting this lightly. But if there's a chance—"

"A chance for what?" Harry cut her off, his eyes blazing with fury. "A chance to put my children in the hands of a monster? No, I won't allow it."

Draco's jaw tightened, his frustration evident. "You're misunderstanding me, Potter. I would never suggest handing over your children from one torment to another. It's about finding common ground—"

"There is no common ground with Voldemort!" Harry's voice rose, echoing through the room. "I won't let you sacrifice my children for political games."

Draco's expression softened, his eyes pleading with Harry. "Think about it, Potter. You may think Voldemort a monster, but he's a calculated one. He wants to maintain his power and influence. If we can strike a deal that benefits him as well as us, it could be the key to rescuing your children." Astoria shot him a warning look. He should not push Harry too far. “Voldemort values appearances. If he gives his word, he'll likely stick to it to maintain his image."

Harry hesitated, clearly torn between his distrust of Voldemort, and the desperate need to save his children. "I would need to hear those assurances directly from Voldemort," he insisted firmly, clearly doubtful the Dark Lord would be ever willing to provide them. “My children’s safety and comfort is paramount.”

“I will contact the Administration, request an appearance before the Dark Lord.” Draco said, his tone nearly relieved.

“No, no, no.” Harry was shaking his head vigorously. He was pretty when angry, Astoria thought, even though he still looked haggard, and his curls were dull. “this is too dangerous, it’s a gamble. I can’t risk it; I will find them myself.”

“We will find them together,” Draco corrected, shooting Harry a glare of his own.

“You know, Malfoy? I swore to consult you, I never said I would take you with me.” Harry’s voice was icy as the man turned and stormed out of the dining room. Their food had gone cold, and Astoria sighed.

“Fantastic,” she said after a quiet minute. “I must return to work, but we will talk when I am back. Do try to talk some sense into him and do not irritate him further.”

“That, unfortunately, is a paradox, my dear Astoria,” Draco huffed and folded his napkin apart to dab at an invisible stain on his trousers.

She turned, rolling her eyes in exasperation and stalked back to her own rooms in an effort to prepare for work. A nightshift at St Mungo’s was still preferable to staying.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco kept dabbing at his trousers, trying hard to slow the panic rising in him.

Their conversation had gone about as well as he had expected, less a strike to his chin or two.
He was well capable of making use of Tom’s resources without Potter’s knowledge or consent – he knew his husband would be affronted if he didn’t, however, Potter was already balancing on a fine thread of trust. Another push and the Savior would trample that last flicker of confidence in Draco, and he so desperately wanted to fan it into a stable flame.

Why it was so important to him eluded even Draco. He had after all had pondered on it quite a bit. He was quick to beg Potter to stay and he was quick to offer his assistance merely to keep him close.

He sighed and pushed his chair from the table, unsure whether he would go find Potter or if he would entertain his own musings instead.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky hue across the grand corridors of the Manor. Draco ascended the stairs with measured steps, the soft glow of the magical torches illuminating his path. The Manor responded to his steps, lighting the way with flickering flames, a subtle acknowledgment of his presence.

The Manor's temperament was a curiosity, a reflection of the tumultuous times it had endured. The echoes of war still resonated within its walls; the memories of atrocities committed during Voldemort's reign etched into its very essence. The Manor had become discerning, cautious of who it welcomed and who it shunned. Especially Tom, after his darkest days, had been barred from entering until Draco had forced a reluctant acceptance.

Astoria, however, had seamlessly integrated herself into the Manor's embrace. Her presence had been a balm, soothing the Manor's unrest and earning its approval quickly. She had nearly refused to let Astoria leave again, her doors shutting tightly until Astoria had sweettalked her with promises of returns.

As he reached the study door, he wondered if the Manor had welcomed Potter already, if she lit his path for him. She must recognize him after all, recognize him as a victim of the war, a soul to protect. He wondered what she would think of Ms. Granger, her alliances battling between pureblood customs and the need to atone for the atrocities committed within her.

Quietly, Draco opened the door to the sitting room. He could hear the faint tapping of footsteps, pacing up and down the Green Room. He supposed it was Potter’s room for the time being and hoped the man was wise enough to take advantage of Draco’s hospitality until the man had found his former strength again.

He decided against speaking with Potter this evening, best to let the angry force of nature pace and cool before attempting another conversation. Draco has had plenty of near-death experiences for the day and it would be insanity to tempt the beast again.

Instead, he turned and stepped through the door to the study, the wood creaking under his shoes. As the first flame flickered to life in the fireplace, a hunched over outline of a person knocked the air out of Draco’s chest. The figure straightened, but remained in place as Draco slipped his wand into his hand.

“Forgive Pippy, Master Draco, Sir! Miss Howard wanted to be seen in private, she did. It is all Pippy’s fault!” Pippy cried as the first spell moved to roll off his tongue and he hastily swallowed it back down. He cautiously took a breath, pressing his left hand to his chest to calm his racing heart.

He waved her off, though his fingers were shaking, and tempted a smile at the house-elf. It only encouraged the little thing and she wailed before she popped away – likely to iron her ears. He would have to find her and heal the stubborn creature.

“Consort Malfoy,” the smooth voice hushed through the room, addressing him with respect. He could make out her head dipping, not quite a bow. “I apologize for surprising you at this late hour. I was instructed to use discretion, my Lord.” Draco hated being addressed as such, it reminded him too much of his father, but Tom insisted it whenever Draco had his back turned.

"In the realm of lords, respect is not bestowed upon the undeserving; it is earned through the wielded might of authority," Tom's voice had resonated with a tone of absolute conviction, delivered during an evening discourse that Draco had found increasingly tedious. To Draco, such proclamations rang hollow, particularly as he saw little merit in his own claim to respect, let alone lordship, except through his grand achievement of birth.

"Apologies are unnecessary, Miss Howard," Draco dismissed her concerns with a gentle wave of his hand, coaxing the lights to brighten with a flick of his wand. It was evident that the Manor shared his lack of enthusiasm for Miss Howard's presence. "Please, proceed with what you were tasked to deliver. I assume my husband has sent you with specific instructions," Draco remarked, refraining from mentioning his earlier insistence to Tom on managing the matter independently. He would make his thoughts known to the man himself at a more opportune time.

“His Majesty, the Dark Lord, has directed me to inform you that they have narrowed down Harry Potter’s origin to two facilities,” Claire announced in a monotone tone, her expression neutral. Miss Howard was an unassuming character, seamlessly blending into the background. She was the type one might overlook in a crowd, her features easily forgotten once out of sight—a familiar stranger, seen countless times yet never truly noticed.

"In West London, precisely in Old Oak Common, and another in Park Royal," she continued her report. "Both are industrial districts neighboring each other. Further confirmation would require an examination of Mr. Potter's wand, but there was an unauthorized magical activity in that vicinity around the time of Mr. Potter's arrival here." She gestured towards the map Draco had left on the desk earlier that day.

"Ah, apologies. We'll need to delay any wand testing for now. Potter is unaware of your presence here, or more crucially, that you're involved in this investigation," Draco cautioned, feeling uneasy about keeping secrets. "I prefer to deliver this information personally and let Potter know about your role first."

"Of course, my Lord," she nodded once, indicating her understanding of his request as a directive. Draco wasn't surprised that Miss Howard had been chosen for this task. Not only was she an expert on the conflict and skilled in discretion, but it also made sense for Tom to assign his best to the Potter children, given the potential gains.

Draco had spoken truthfully during dinner. The Wizengamot was in turmoil due to the escalating threat posed by Muggles to the Wizarding World. The surge in abductions had once again polarized the masses and a bold move to save the Wizarding World’s beloved Savior would undoubtedly earn Tom favor with those currently staunchly opposed to his rule.

“Nottingham, approximately 180 kilometers from London,” Claire interjected, drawing Draco's attention back to the conversation. “We suspect that Mr. Potter’s children are held here, but we cannot confirm our suspicions at this time.” A fleeting frown crossed her features, a brief crack in her usual facade of calm indifference. “We have been surveilling the facilities in London for long enough to suspect no children are held in either center.”

“Surveilled how?”

"Hogwarts uses accidental magic tracking to identify Muggle-born children for enrollment. The Department of Mysteries made alterations to the charms specifically for such purpose," Miss Howard explained. Nodding, Draco recalled Tom's directives regarding Muggle-born tracking—it was a strategy to remove children discreetly before their parents could realize they had magical abilities.

“And how confident are we in these predictions?" Draco asked her cautiously.

“While we can’t narrow it down enough to track an individual person – not without having a copy of the magical signature beforehand – we can predict the location of accidental magic down to a fifty-meter radius.” Claire tapped her wand to the area labeled “Nottingham” on the map. The map narrowed down to an industrial park unfamiliar to Draco.

“We have seen significantly more occurrences of accidental, wandless magic here, than in both facilities in London together. In the last year, we tracked six.”

Draco's frown deepened as he regarded Claire, her dirty blonde hair pulled up in a tight knot and her attire giving off a professional yet disarming aura. The watery blue skirt and rose blouse made her seem more like a secretary than the Dark Lord's most favored spy, but Draco knew better than to judge solely based on appearances.

"Is that a significant number?" he asked, choosing his words carefully. He had no desire to insult the woman.

"Given that Muggles have managed to block magic, it's actually a considerable number. These incidents likely involve strong young wizards capable of bypassing the wards without a wand and manifesting magical energy," Claire explained, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Understood," Draco acknowledged. "But how can we ensure that these magical occurrences are indeed from children and not adult wizards capable of bypassing the wards?"

"Children's accidental magic leaves distinct traces, which is what Hogwarts and now the Department of Mysteries tracks. An adult wizard would likely have enough control over their magic to make such accidental outbursts difficult. These assumptions are made cautiously, of course, as they are essentially educated guesses. However, I'm optimistic enough about these findings to present them to you, my Lord," Miss Howard explained, her tone calm and patient.

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you for the information, Claire... Miss Howard," he corrected himself, unsure which form of address she preferred after years of working together. She had never expressed a preference for one or the other.

She repeated her near-bow in acknowledgment, yet she didn't correct his address.

"What does the Dark Lord suggest we do?" he asked, whishing he could have this conversation directly with Tom. However, with their current house guest, it was uncertain when they would have a chance to speak in private again.

"He did not share with me, my Lord," Claire replied respectfully. "I was instructed to report to you and continue my surveillance. I am to return to my post within the day." Draco pondered which specific post she referred to; his own work focused on bringing modern strategies to the King’s Council to aid in the cold war against Muggles, rather than the intricacies of spy-work.

"Thank you, Miss Howard," Draco said with gratitude. "If there is nothing else, please feel free to return to your duties."
After Draco's dismissal, Claire simply dipped her head in acknowledgment and disapparated with a crack. Being one of the individuals keyed into the Manor, not for personal appreciation but due to the nature of her work, the wards bent but snapped back into place once she was gone.

Draco rounded the desk and sank into his chair with a heavy sigh, the weariness of the day weighing heavily on him. It had been far too long for his liking, filled with tense discussions and difficult decisions. He dropped his elbows onto the map spread out before him and rested his forehead in his palms, massaging both temples cautiously. The events of the day replayed in his mind, each detail etched with uncertainty and potential danger.

“Who was that?” Potter’s question cut through Draco’s thoughts. He straightened instantly at the sound of Potter's voice, the darkness in it matching the shadows that concealed his face. He cursed himself internally for not casting a privacy charm, unsure of how much of their conversation Potter had overheard.

Draco's initial instinct was to deny any visitor's presence, a reflex born of caution and habit, but he quickly discarded it, opting instead for honesty. "That was Miss Howard," he explained carefully, his voice tinged with weariness. "She's a spy employed by the Regime. She provided information regarding potential locations related to your children's whereabouts."

Potter's silhouette stiffened, his breathing audible in the quiet room. "You went to Voldemort when I told you not to?" His words were a low growl, each syllable vibrating with anger and betrayal.

Draco's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration passing over his features. "I didn't request her presence. The Wizengamot is already working on freeing its children, all of them. The entire Wizarding World is invested in ensuring their safety," he explained, his tone measured.

Draco felt the weight of Potter's gaze even in the dimness of the room.

"I work as a consultant for the Administration," Draco continued, feeling the need to clarify. "I don't act solely on their behalf. I have not and will not seek out Miss Howard’s consult without your consent."

As the lights flickered brighter around them, Draco caught a glimpse of Potter's face. It looked as though he had cried, and Draco's heart squeezed at the thought. The man’s eyes were red, his skin slightly blotchy.

Draco had never faced a loss like that of children, but he knew the panic and pain of such grief must be near unbearable.

"I've reconsidered," Potter's voice was softer now, a hint of resignation in his tone. "If Voldemort assures me that my children won't be harmed, I'm willing to consider any assistance or information he can provide."

Draco felt a wave of relief at Potter's change of heart, a glimmer of hope emerging amidst the tension headache he was sporting. "I'll convey your terms to the Dark Lord and initiate negotiations as soon as possible," he promised quickly. Draco would even owl him this evening, before Potter would reconsider again.

Potter nodded thoughtfully and took a few steps into the study, closing the door behind him softly. The Manor responded by fanning the flames in the fireplace to life, casting a warm, golden glow that enveloped the room. Despite it being late April, a chill still lingering in the spring evenings, and Draco welcomed the comforting warmth of the fire.

“Also,” Potter sat in the chair opposite Draco, a safe few meters and a desk away. His tone was hushed, whether he was concerned someone might overhear them, or he remembered this morning with mortification, Draco couldn’t tell. When Potter remained silent, Draco encouraged him to speak with a gentle gesture.

"Also, I've decided to retrieve my wand and belongings,” he finished, and Draco nearly choked on his next breath.

“You wish to what?!” Draco eyes widened; his mind unable to grapple with Potter’s stupidity. “You want to return there? Just for your wand?! Potter,” he shook his head in disbelief, “I am sure it is an excellent wand, marvelous even, but are you certain it is worth returning for?”

“Huh?” Potter replied eloquently, tilting his head to the side to stare at Draco, clearly not understanding the risks of returning to that goddamn Muggle hellhole.

“Oh!” Potter said finally, a small grin stretching over the man’s tired face, and Draco had to admit the Savior must have lost his mind. Too bad his insanity was such a handsome look. “No! I may be reckless, but not even I am that stupid.”

“Your words, not mine,” Draco, a sigh of relief escaping his chest.

“My wand is at my home, or was, when we were kidnapped. That’s where I need to go.” Potter clarified quickly, ignoring Draco’s words.

"Thank Merlin for that," he muttered under his breath. "Yes, of course. Going to your home seems like the logical first step. We may find something there that could lead us to the ones responsible for taking your children."

Potter nodded though a cloud of worry darkened his features, and he lifted a hand to his mouth. Draco was appalled to watch as Potter began chewing on the nail of his thumb. Mother would have smacked him with… really anything within her vicinity at the time. More gracious, however, Draco looked away and let the man resume his unbecoming habit.

"What's troubling you, Potter?" Draco inquired calmly instead.

“I’m afraid we’ll find Ginny.” Potter confessed quietly; his words muffled by his thumb. “She died there.”

Draco shook his head carefully. “The Weasley’s didn’t find her, neither did the Aurors. The place was destroyed, but empty.”

"You were there?" Potter's disbelief was evident in his tone, his hand dropping from his mouth. "How did you and the Aurors breach the Fidelius Charm?"

"No, I wasn't involved in the investigation," Draco clarified. "But I suspect Ron Weasley allowed their entry."

"Ron? But Ginny was the Secret Keeper for my home, just as I was for hers."

"When a Secret Keeper dies, those who learned the secret from them inherit the role," Draco explained patiently.

Potter nodded, though the crease between his brows betrayed his confusion. "Right, I remember that now."

"It does raise a question," Draco continued, his tone thoughtful. "How did the Muggles breach the Fidelius Charm if Ginerva didn't disclose the location to them?"

“Ginny would have never placed her children in such horrifying danger.” Potter hissed; his teeth bared. Draco instinctively leaned back, wary of Potter's unpredictable temper. These sudden mood swings were wearing him out, he realized, stifling an untimely yawn creeping up on him.

"I'm not suggesting Ginny would ever betray you. I'm simply pondering how they managed to breach the Fidelius," Draco clarified, hoping his words would ease the tension radiating from Potter. "Understanding their method could be crucial and provide valuable insights into potential threats."

Potter's gaze softened slightly, though the wariness remained in his eyes. "You're right,” he said as though it hurt him to admit. “We need to figure out how they did it and what it means for our security moving forward."

Before Draco could respond, Potter rose from his seat and drew his wand, the determined set of his jaw casting shadows on his face. Draco's heart sank as he instinctively reached for his own wand, the familiar weight providing a sense of security.

"Alright," Potter's voice was grimly resolute, his wand gesturing broadly as if he were brandishing a sword rather than a wand. Draco's palms grew sweaty, the air thick with anticipation. Potter nodded to himself, already striding toward the door with purpose, leaving Draco to calm his racing thoughts.

"Where are you going?" Draco's question chased after Potter's retreating figure, his tone a mix of concern and confusion. Potter paused mid-step, glancing back with a furrowed brow.

"Er... My house?" Potter's response was tentative, as if he wondered whether Draco was daft.

Draco shook his head, a chuckle escaping him despite the tension. "Potter, it's nearly ten at night. This mission can wait until morning. You need rest, not reckless escapades, you git."

As soon as the playful insult left his lips, Draco's expression turned into a mix of panic and regret. He hadn't meant to let such familiarity slip, especially not with Potter.

However, Potter didn't seem to take offense. Instead, he acted as though he hadn’t heard him and glanced at the clock on the wall, his frown deepening before he sighed heavily.

"Okay, yes, fair point," Potter conceded, crossing his arms in a stubborn stance. "But we leave before breakfast."

"After breakfast," Draco insisted firmly, refusing to compromise on Potter's well-being, as well as his own. "You need to eat, Potter. We'll depart after we've had a proper meal."

Potter grumbled but eventually relented with a nod. "After breakfast," he agreed, turning to leave once more.

"Goodnight, ferret," Potter tossed the old nickname over his shoulder before disappearing through the doorway. Draco couldn't help but smile at the familiar banter, grateful that his slip of the tongue hadn't soured their blossoming partnership.

Chapter Text

Harry woke early, his mind still buzzing with the remnants of dreams. The sunlight, flooding in through the open curtains, teased his nose and blinded him as he fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, mindful of his sore shoulder.

After adjusting the frames and stifling a yawn, Harry pushed the thick comforter aside, ready to find Malfoy and hold him to his promises. As his feet hit the ground, a large shadow creeped over him, blocking the sun and freezing Harry’s heart with the suddenness of its appearance.

“Bloody hell!” Harry exclaimed, scrambling backward to retrieve his wand from under the pillow, nearly knocking it off the bed in his haste. It seemed his restless sleep had left him vulnerable and uncoordinated.

“Well, good morning to you too, Potter,” drawled Malfoy's cool voice, as he extended a soft bundle of fabric towards Harry.

“Jesus, Malfoy!” Harry gasped, his heart still palpitating from the unexpected intrusion. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“I thought an early start would suit us. My mistake, it seems,” Malfoy replied, his tone reserved yet not hostile. “Draco, by the way, not Jesus.”

“No, I…” Harry shook his head. “Jesus. As in a… a religious figure in some of the Muggle religions around the world.”

“I’m aware,” Malfoy grinned, nodding towards the piece of velvet green. “Your morning attire, Potter. It’s chilly out there.”

A morning robe, Harry’s cheeks flushed as he realized he was practically half-dressed in front of Malfoy. Yet again. He grabbed the robe quickly, frustrated that he felt so abashed when he had taught at a gym for years. Had grown into a man at a boarding school, for Merlin’s sake.

“Breakfast is in ten,” Malfoy’s lips still twitched in amusement and turned before Harry could respond.

As Malfoy whistled a little melody and left the room, Harry sat there, still clutching the robe like a maiden in distress. Slowly, he got up and made his way to the bathroom, the wooden floors warm under his feet, heated by the morning sun.

Harry decided to leave the robe by the tub, opting for a simple shower to wash away the remnants of sleep instead.

As he stepped into the shower, Harry couldn't help but admire the beauty of it. The marble tiles glistened in pristine white, accented tastefully with sleek black details. The shower itself was expansive, large enough to accommodate half a Quidditch team comfortably.

Every corner of the shower was meticulously furnished with an array of bath products—shampoos, conditioners, bath oils—all tempting in their variety and allure. However, Harry chose simplicity over extravagance, reaching for a deceptively plain bar of soap that carried an unexpectedly delightful fragrance—a medley of flowers, woods, and a hint of citrus, weaving together in a symphony of scents.

Wrapped in a towel as soft as the blanket he had slept in, Harry dared to venture through the adjacent door, which led not back to the guest room but into what appeared to be a closet containing a department store worth of clothing.

“Pippy was happy to get Mister Harry Potter good clothes to wear. Dreadful his style. Pippy can help,” the nodding little elf proclaimed, appearing so suddenly that Harry nearly dropped his towel in surprise.

Startled, Harry clutched the towel tighter and took a step back, inadvertently bumping into a rack of formal robes. “Powder blue is not Mister Harry Potter’s color. It is not,” Pippy tsked, striding confidently into the closet with her dress of pink peonies and a matching pink bow on her ear, her determined little feet tapping on the floor.

Sighing inwardly, Harry reluctantly allowed Pippy to lead him deeper into the closet, where a plethora of fabrics and colors overwhelmed his senses. Pippy, however, seemed right at home amidst the chaos, pulling out garments with gusto.

Evident in her own fascinating wardrobe, she clearly preferred colors and Harry just hoped she wouldn’t pick the lemon-yellow button down currently waving hallo at him.

Whether with a sigh of relief or reluctant acceptance, Harry accepted her choice of a woodbine green sweater and brown trousers. Not wanting to burst the elf’s bubble of happiness, he refrained from commenting that he would look rather like a mint praline.

“Pippy picked the most fashionable colors of the year for Mister Harry Potter! Master Draco won’t allow Pippy to do the same for him,” the elf lamented, giving Harry a look that tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him of Lily.

“You got it,” Harry replied quickly, gently guiding Pippy towards the closet exit. “Thank you very much, Pippy.”

“Yes, Pippy did get it! You are most welcome, Mister Harry Potter, Sir,” Pippy exclaimed, vibrating with excitement before disappearing at Harry’s urging. He marveled at the elf’s confidence and easy nature, remembering how unaccustomed Dobby had been to gratitude.

Leaning against the door frame, Harry held up the sweater, feeling a pang of nostalgia as the color brought back memories of Ginny’s kitchen. She had insisted on painting it the same shade of green as soon as she had moved in. Now it reminded him of toasties after soccer games and spaghetti dinners.

Harry finally pulled together the fragments of energy he could muster and got dressed. Indeed, Harry thought as he considered himself in the mirror, he could camouflage himself as a cone of mint-chocolate chip ice cream and deliberately picked a light brown pair of shoes.

He flipped the mirror the bird when it whistled and almost ran to the dining hall, only to find the room empty and most definitely devoid of breakfast.

"Master Draco is having breakfast in the Eastern Sunroom," another elf appeared quietly behind Harry, startling him. He had met this elf before. Yesterday, he thought, and tried to remember his name.

"Thank you… Krispy?" He guessed and immediately scrambled an apology when the old elf glared at him with indignation.

"Kripsy, Mister Potter, Sir. Kripsy," the elf chastised Harry with a waggling finger, reminding him of Kreacher. He wondered what had become of the old creature after he had left him behind at Grimmauld Place. Harry had tried to convince Kreacher to come, bribed him even, but had ultimately given up when the old elf had locked himself into his cupboard until Harry had left.

"Right! Kripsy," he corrected quickly, suppressing a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Would you kindly show me to the Eastern Sunroom?"

The house-elf didn’t respond but turned sharply and on quick feet led Harry down a labyrinth of hallways and corridors until they arrived at an ornate set of French doors.

Kripsy snapped his fingers, and the doors opened before Harry, and then disappeared just as quickly as he had appeared.

The sunroom was a truly breathtaking sight. The light of the early morning sunrise filtered through the glass-front to the east, casting a warm glow across the room. The view outside expanded over the green hills and woods of the countryside, where flowers stretched slowly toward the sunrays, their petals opening to welcome the first visitors of bees and butterflies.

Inside, however, protected from the chilly morning dew, the sunroom was transformed into an oasis of sweet scents and lush greens. Exotic plants, vines, and ferns adorned every corner, their vibrant foliage creating a tapestry of colors and textures. The air was filled with the delicate fragrance of blooming flowers and honey.

The floor was laid with black and white checkered tiles, leading to a small seating area in the middle of the room. White upholstered seats surrounded an intricately designed iron wrought table, currently dressed in a crisp white tablecloth. On the table sat an unsurprising yet elegantly arranged selection of French breakfast foods.

Malfoy, surprisingly not adorned in one of Pippy’s colorful creations, sat with an air of casual elegance in one of the chairs. His platinum blond hair was neatly styled, framing his sharp features and the soft sunlight filtering through the glass illuminated his pale skin, giving it a subtle glow, that Harry – he was surprised and embarrassed to admit – ached to learn the feel of.

With his legs were crossed comfortably, Malfoy leaned back slightly, a picture of relaxed confidence that Harry couldn’t help but envy. As he entered the sunroom, Malfoy lowered the morning paper he had been perusing, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Pippy can be quite forthcoming, can she not?” His mirth was both irritating and contagious as Malfoy’s eyes roamed over the clothes Pippy had picked for Harry.

“She clearly is an expert, Malfoy. You would do well to heed her advice next time,” Harry replied allowing a hint of playful sarcasm. He settled into his seat across from Malfoy, determined not to give Malfoy any reason to backtrack on their arrangement from the night before. Harry selected an array of foods, opting for cheeses, fruits, and a cup of English tea.

Malfoy folded the paper into a small square and placed it aside, his gray eyes assessing Harry thoughtfully.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Harry mumbled between one bite and the next, relishing the subtle cringe on Malfoy’s face. Perhaps he should eat with his mouth open as well, just to test Malfoy’s patience.

“You have not learned much since Hogwarts; your table manners are as atrocious as they have always been,” Malfoy remarked, taking a delicate bite of a croissant. Harry couldn’t help but notice how elegantly he managed even something as simple as eating. However, when Malfoy dipped the baked good into his tea, Harry grimaced.

“At least, I don’t eat my croissant soggy,” he retorted, the soft cheese in his mouth doing little to strengthen his jab.

“Croissant.” Malfoy shook his head in exasperation. The man was a pompous git and Harry enjoyed drawing his patience thin.

“That’s what I said, Crawsaunt.” Harry snickered and rolled his eyes as Malfoy flinched dramatically, as though the pronunciation physically assaulted him.

“C'était une insulte envers la langue française,” Malfoy quipped, his aristocratic air momentarily ruffled as he feigned offense, resembling an affronted poodle with his nose held high. Harry couldn't help but imagine the absurdity of Malfoy in a pink beret, a visual that almost made him snort.

"Exactly," Harry replied with a playful grin, having understood exactly nothing. He returned to his breakfast, determined to finish with the grace of a cave troll.

As the last sip of tea disappeared, Malfoy rose from his seat with a relieved sigh, signaling the end of breakfast.

“If I never have to watch you devour your food again, it will be too soon, Potter.” His tone carried a mix of annoyance and amusement, though he looked pleased that Harry had eaten and vanished the food with a flick of his wand.

“Ready?” Malfoy asked, stretching out one arm in an offer for Harry to grasp it.

“Wait, no. I want to apparate us,” Harry blurted out. Regardless of how pleasant breakfast had been, he couldn’t shake the lingering suspicions that Malfoy was up to nefarious things, a fear that gnawed at him, urging caution in every step they took.

“And get splinched with that borrowed wand of yours? Absolutely not, I prefer my toes intact,” Malfoy retorted, his voice edged with a sharpness that cut through the morning calm, and shook his head more vigorously than Harry thought was necessary.

“I am very well capable of apparating us,” Harry countered, his tone firm. He may not have had as much practice as Malfoy over the past decade, but he was still capable of performing magic, and he wasn’t about to let Malfoy forget it.

“As we all were made carefully aware when you apparated onto the Manor’s grounds,” Malfoy pointed out, his arms crossed in a stance of stubborn determination. It was clear to Harry that Malfoy was not easily going to change his mind, regardless of Harry’s protests, but neither was he.

“That was an exception, and you know it,” Harry bit back, the tension rising up his spine and causing his muscles to tense. He wanted to hex Malfoy for the insult, the implication that he couldn’t handle basic magic, and he barely managed to bite his tongue in restraint.

“I am not taking any chances today, Potter. You may apparate us when you have your own wand back in your hand,” Malfoy stated firmly, his gaze unwavering.

“We will not make it to my wand unless I apparate us,” Harry argued. They stared at one another, brows furrowed and eyes glowering as a tense silence settled between them. Neither willing to budge on their position. They stood so for a few long seconds.

“Fine!” Malfoy finally spat, his anger evident in the fiery glint of his eyes and the snarl on his face. He thrust his wand at Harry, the hilt pointing accusingly, a silent command.

Harry stared at it dumbly, awestruck by the sudden shift, as though he could not decipher what Malfoy intended for him to do. The fuming wizard wiggled the wand impatiently before Harry’s face until, tentatively, Harry reached out and grasped the offered wand carefully, the weight of it familiar in his hand.

It instantly appeared to recognize Harry, its wood warming lightly as if bathed in the morning sun. It was a reserved kind of ‘Hallo’, in remembrance of an old, shared history.

“What…?” Harry still didn’t understand what he was to do and looked at Malfoy questioningly. Some anger receding in favor of annoyance, the blond stared at him for a moment before waving a hand demonstratively between the two of them.

“Seriously, Potter?” He asked, his tone laced with exasperation. “What do you think? Apparate us. Clearly, my wand accepts you and you have wielded it before. If you must be so bullheaded to insist on apparating us, you will do so with my wand, not yours.” Malfoy huffed again and reached for Harry’s arm, not bothering to ask if he may touch him, and linked them by their elbows.

“O-okay,” Harry stumbled over the word, incredulous at the unexpected show of trust. A wizard did not lend his wand without absolute confidence in the wielder.

Carefully, he held onto the wand and focused on their destination, the image of his children’s faces urging him forward. With a whirlwind of magic, they apparated to 12D Hiderway Avenue, Ravenswood Terrace, London.

He didn’t bother telling Malfoy where he had lived. For one, because he saw no reason to invite Malfoy into such secret, and two, because Harry knew instantly that, after today, he would never return here.

They stood in silence on the landing of an old apartment building, the tattered staircases leading up and down to other floors. To an unassuming passerby, there was a door missing on this floor, an empty wall with fading paint.

But Harry and Malfoy, they faced the remnants of a door, once painted red with various-sized handprints lovingly printed onto the wood. Sweat beaded on Harry's forehead and upper lip, his hands and back clammy with anticipation and fear.

The fragments of red splinters and torn hinges brought a dread to Harry’s body so forcefully that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow in fear of suffocating. The walls seemed to close in on him, the singular wooden step both swaying closer and farther away, and he thought he would be sick.

A squeeze, first softly then more forcefully, slowly brought Harry close enough to the surface of sanity to tear his eyes from the first signs of the tragedy, the massacre.

“You are alright, Potter,” it wasn’t a question but an assurance. The promise that he would not be facing this disaster on his own. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to, alone.

Harry didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t speak. He nodded once and turned back toward the door, yet he remained frozen in his spot, unable to take a step closer.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Potter stood frozen in shock, facing the remnants of the night that had shattered his world. Draco couldn’t fault him for it; the destruction of the door and the glimpses of chaos they could make out through the gashes were devastating. With a gentle touch, he pried his wand from Potter’s iron grip, unwilling to step into the apartment unarmed.

Equally cautious, Draco pushed open what remained of the front door, urging Potter to follow him. The hallway, littered with red splinters, picture frames, and broken glass, led directly to a small kitchen. Carefully navigating the debris, Draco guided them toward the heart of the home.

Potter seemed to crumble under the weight of his sorrow. His shoulders slumped, and his gaze fixated on the void where his family had once been. A haunting whimper escaped his lips, a sound that echoed the depth of his grief.

Behind sorrowful eyes, Draco could sense Potter's soul retreating into the safer corners of his mind, but he would refuse to let the Savior flee entirely. With determination, Draco coaxed Potter along, his hand firmly pressed to the man’s shoulder, until they both stood in the ruined kitchen.

An unnatural storm had ravaged everything dear to Potter, leaving only wreckage in its wake. Broken teacups lay scattered like forgotten memories. Chairs had collapsed, their legs torn off and strewn about. Cupboards hung open, missing doors revealing empty shelves. The table’s leaflet lay discarded, and what had once been a meal now lay as rotted remnants on the edge of the tabletop, a cruel reminder of the life that had been torn apart.

Potter’s knees buckled when his eyes caught the dark spot on the hardwood floor. It wasn’t red, as Draco had perhaps expected, but instead, it was a deep brown, almost black. His gaze frozen on the spot; Potter’s heart was racing so fast that Draco could feel it through the fabric of the green sweater.

“She won’t forgive me,” Potter mumbled, his words almost slurred. “She will never forgive me for failing them.”

“She will,” Draco argued gently, his hand awkwardly rubbing Potter’s shoulder. “You will find them, and you will avenge the hurt they endured. She will forgive you.”

Potter must not have noticed he had spoken his words aloud; his head snapped up, looking at Draco almost as though he was seeking comfort, seeking reassurance.

“And I will help you,” Draco swore, a sense of conviction creeping in, replacing the horror he felt at the scene before him. “You will make them pay.”

Potter regarded him with an intensity that Draco couldn’t quite endure, but he didn’t dare cringe away. There was something raw and primal in Potter's gaze, a flicker of anger mingled with grief, growing from a depth as though Potter was tapping into a reservoir of power buried beneath devastation, a quiet but deadly strength.

With sudden movement, Potter pulled free from his hand, instead striding purposefully into the living room. Ignoring the disaster of broken chairs and broken glass around him, Potter focused on a large painting above the sofa. He levitated the frame aside with a determined motion, barely glancing at the still picture of Hogwarts as dust swirled in thick plumes. Under disillusionment charms, Draco could vaguely make out the outlines of a safe, embedded into the wall.

Potter's command over magic was nothing short of impressive, each flick of his borrowed wand unraveling the intricate locks of the safe with precision. The protective charms yielded to his will, and Draco couldn’t help but stare with admiration and surprise. Had Potter shown this kind of precision earlier, Draco might have allowed him to apparate them without his own wand.

As the safe's door swung open, revealing the treasures within, Draco's eyes widened. The holly wand shot out eagerly, as if welcoming Potter back after years of absence. His skill in handling the wand was evident as he easily plucked it out of the air, tucked the borrowed wand away and regarded his own. A small smile crossed his lips at the hum of the dark wood and the gentle glow of its core.

With a simple flick of his wrist, Potter summoned the remaining pieces held within the safe. Draco recognized the broken fragments of the elder wand, pulsing with ancient energy despite their shattered state. The shimmering fabric of a cloak caught the sunlight, casting rainbows across the room and reflecting off Potter’s pale skin.

The significance of these artifacts wasn’t lost on Draco, even if he didn’t recognize the ring among them. He could guess its purpose if the other two Hollows were any indication.

When Potter turned to face him, Draco saw a fire in his eyes, a determination that sent shivers down his spine and a heat up into his cheeks. "I have what I need," Potter declared, his voice resolute. "It's time to leave."

Forcing himself to swallow, to act as though he was within control of himself, Draco offered Potter his arm to apparate the both of them to the Manor.

To his surprise, Potter allowed it and reached with his free hand to curl his fingers around Draco’s elbow. Draco fought hard to repress a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and focused on their destination, awaiting the nauseating pull behind his navel that would take them away.

Yet nothing happened.

At first Draco wondered if perhaps Potter’s proximity had made him impotent, but then Potter stiffened. He could hear it too, the quiet sets of footsteps down the hall, as though someone, or many, were sneaking up a set of stairs.

“Bloody hell,” Potter hissed as he clearly attempted his own apparition and was left without magic. “Bullocks, buggering Merlin, fucking Salazar…” Draco didn’t mind much about the colorful curses Potter was spewing into the alarmed silence as the man tried again and again to apparate without success.

Draco was frozen in panic, his fingers aching as they gripped his useless wand too tightly. An urgency plucked on the bond beyond Draco’s mental guards. A question from his other half that he couldn’t manage to answer, his magic bound enough to disallow him from breaking down the barrier, from calling Tom for help.

“They have anti-magic wards,” Potter hissed helpfully, and Draco didn’t bother murdering Potter with a furious look to tell him that he knew. He was shaking instead.

“Because you see?” Draco thought desperately, unable to speak the words aloud. “I am not made for combat, I am not made for actual, deadly violence.” He was a strategist, a tinkerer, an inventor, a potioneer. He was many things, capable of extraordinary things. But he was not a fighter, a killer. Draco hadn’t managed to kill Dumbledore when it had mattered, when his own life had been on the line, he wouldn’t manage to kill now either.

“Stay here,” Potter mumbled quietly into his ear, as though Draco had planned to go for a stroll and shifted slowly in front of Draco. Draco could barely hear him under the roaring of blood within his ears – he was going to pass out and die instead.

With his back to Draco, Potter scanned the room for anything that could serve as a makeshift defense, remaining surprisingly calm.

“We'll have to rely on good old-fashioned physical defense until I can rip through these wards,” Potter explained, his voice steady but hushed. Beyond the terror coursing through his blood, Draco couldn’t help but marvel at Potter. As though a gear had shifted, a lever flipped, and Potter acted on instinct alone.

“Help me,” Potter asked and nodded toward the sofa. It took a second for Draco to catch on, another more to shake off the paralysis and assist Potter in pushing the sofa a good meter and a half from the wall. The feet of the seating arrangement scraped painfully on the floor, and Draco couldn’t hope the Muggles had missed the commotion.

With his heart in his throat, Draco crouched behind the flimsy barricade, eyes trained onto Potter for guidance. He had no idea how to defend himself in hand-to-hand combat, had never needed to know after the war. And even then, his only experience were petty schoolboy fights, most of them with Potter himself.

Potter was crouching beside him, holding his wand determinedly and lips moving as though he was silently casting spell after spell. Though nothing was happening.

The first footsteps into the hallway, boots crunching glass and wood under their heels, tied Draco’s tongue and he couldn’t muster asking Potter what he was doing. Couldn’t muster breathing if he was being entirely honest.

A hand found his curled fist and squeezed, warm and undeniably sweaty. Draco looked up from the spot on the floor he had been transfixed by and meet Potter’s green eyes.

Stupidly, Draco’s heart began racing for an entirely different reason. Potter was flushed, his usually pale skin full of color, his eyes blazed with determination and anger, his curls sticking to his neck and forehead. Alive, Potter looked goddamn alive for the first time since he had reentered Draco’s life.

Perhaps because adrenaline was making him stupid, or because he was pretty sure he was going to die regardless – as much as he could, anyway – he opened his fist and slotted his fingers against Potter’s, holding hands like a teenage boy for a brief moment.

So quickly it was almost never there, Potter cast a smile at him and then nodded to Draco’s side, to the severed chair leg that must have made its way underneath the sofa during the first attack, dust collecting thickly on the wood.

Careful not to move too much, Draco reached out and grabbed it, handing it to Potter with a questioning look. He received a nod in thanks and was thrust something into his hand in return. It was soft and shimmering and when he looked up Potter looked at him with an urging in his eyes.

Understanding, he unfolded the fabric and covered himself with it up to his neck. Relieved to find the cloak’s magic still working despite whatever methods the Muggles were using to block magic, he remained as a floating head next to Potter.

Smiling again, though somewhat forced, Potter reached out to squeeze his hand one last time before shifting away a bit. his gaze sliding past Draco, Potter weighed the piece of wood in his hand. When Draco followed the man’s gaze and turned his head, he found himself staring back at him through a cloudy reflection. A window, he realized at the same time as movement caught his eye.

Beyond the reflection of the sofa, he could make out shadows circling the furniture. Four, Draco counted four shadows and swallowed hard. A glance at Potter wasn’t entirely reassuring, the man looked furious, hatred had etched itself around the corners of his mouth and Draco feared Potter would perhaps do something reckless.

It wasn’t as though that would be new for Potter, he had been a reckless child and not grown any calmer or wiser in the time since.

The muscles on Potter’s arm twitched, his jaw was tight, and his brow was furrowed deeply. Draco should have seen it coming, but he was still surprised when Harry flung up, aimed expertly within the same fluid movement and fired his projectile straight at one of the assailants.

He heard more than saw in the reflection, when the chair leg met its target. A dull thump was followed by a crash and then chaos. Shouts erupted as the fourth assailant crumbled to the floor, the chair leg having hit the masked Muggle square in the face. Yet Draco didn’t feel like smiling, there were three men left and no chair legs in sight.

“Don’t shoot, target required alive.” Potter must have heard the command as well, breathing a small sigh of relieve. At least it would slow the Muggles’ reaction time, Draco hoped. A hand came up and tucked on the hood to the cloak, drawing it over Malfoy’s head, before Potter crouched, ready to jump.

“How dare you return here,” Potter hissed, fury a living thing within him. Draco could have sworn to see the eternity of magic wisp through the emerald green of his eyes as they settled on the hanging light fixture, dangling precariously from the ceiling amidst the wreckage. “Fuck you for stepping foot in here again.”

With the last word still ringing out, Potter leaped over the sofa, quick as a flash and ripped the metallic light fixture from its hooks. The chain rattled loudly as it came down with it, plaster and paint from the ceiling rained onto Draco. He hurriedly brushed off the debris, mindful that the falling pieces could reveal his concealed position beneath the cloak.

His heart thumped in his chest as he scooted slowly toward the end of the sofa, casting a look at the scene in the middle of the room. Draco watched in awe as Potter maneuvered with a grace that belied his injuries, evading blows and striking back with calculated precision, the chain swinging dangerously over his head.

As one assailant lunged at Potter, he sidestepped, causing the attacker to crash into a wobbly bookshelf. Books and debris rained down, disorienting the assailant long enough for Potter to kick away the man’s gun. It skidded toward Draco, stopping just out of his reach.

Taking advantage of the opportunity Potter had created, Draco assured himself the cloak concealed him as he crawled toward the weapon on the floor. Although curious about firearms, he lacked the knowledge to operate one effectively. He fumbled with the unfamiliar mechanisms, realizing that without understanding how to disengage the safety, the gun was of little use to him.

The room became a whirlwind of chaos and desperation, with Potter fighting tooth and nail to keep the assailants at bay, away from Draco. Potter's strategic mind and resourcefulness shone through as he utilized every available object—the fallen lamp for a makeshift whip, a vase as a projectile—to turn the tide in their favor.

As the groaning man near the bookshelf began to stir, Draco acted quickly. He held onto the gun, heart pounding in his chest, and tucked it beneath the cloak. With cautious movements, he approached the recovering assailant. Standing tall, careful not to give away his invisibility, Draco hovered over the man as he tried to rise.

Feeling a surge of nausea and adrenaline, Draco lifted the gun and brought it down with a resounding crack, rendering the assailant unconscious and effectively neutralizing the immediate threat.

Blood sprayed instantly as the metal struck the man’s nose, saturating the dark mask covering his face. With a pained moan, the assailant crumpled, consciousness slipping away. Draco winced, imagining the likely broken bone, and pushed back the bile rising at the sight of blood.

His stomach dropped as rough hands seized his cloak from behind, wrenching his arms backward and forcing his wrists together at the small of his back. Pain shot through Draco, joints and bones contorting unnaturally as he cried out. Potter whirled around with lightning speed, confronting the assailant threatening Draco.

“Oh no. Absolutely not,” Potter growled, fixing his deadly glare past Draco.

Draco could almost sense it, the surge of power within Potter as it clawed to the surface, coursing through the man’s body like a raging river. It built up, gathering momentum until the delicate strands of the wards began to weaken. With a foreboding crack, the wards shattered, and Potter wasted no time in unleashing a precisely aimed Bombarda.

The explosion was powerful enough to send the assailant hurtling through the hallway, crashing into what looked like a bedroom wall. Draco staggered; his equilibrium disrupted by the force of the blast. Potter swiftly steadied him, already shifting his focus to the next target with a lethal grace that reminded Draco of Tom.

The action unfolded so rapidly that Draco couldn't react in time, but Potter's silent spells struck each assailant squarely in the chest, causing them to crumple to the floor one by one.

“Are they dead?” Draco asked breathlessly, his voice wavering significantly. With a shaking hand he returned the invisibility cloak to Potter who accepted it gratefully.

“No,” Potter shook his head vigorously, his face grim, sweat was dripping in pearls from his temple. “No but stunned. For now, at least.”

He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his sweater, its color now more a dusty gray than green and then offered a hand to Draco. Not bothering to comment on the dirt on his palm, Draco grabbed the hand gladly and prayed to Merlin to find himself in his home, his safe Manor, within the next second.

“Wait!” Draco cursed internally at Potter’s voice, he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. “Where is Ginny’s wand?” Potter asked, finally something akin to panic in his voice.

“Potter!” He ground out between clenched teeth. “Please, I beg you – and I am not particularly fond of begging – let's go!”

“Accio Ginny’s wand!” Potter cried, nonetheless. Nothing happened and Potter’s frown deepened. “Um… Accio James’ wand!” Again, no movement and panic seemed to grip a hold of Potter further.

“Potter,” Draco pleaded with the man, “it’s not here. I am sorry, but we need to leave.”

Potter finally resolved, his haunted eyes turning to Draco, and he nodded in acquiescence.

“Malfoy Manor,” Draco said aloud, just in case his magic was still fickle. But in the next moment, the point behind his navel twisted and they found themselves thrown through space to land with a crack in the Foyer of the Manor.

Chapter Text

Harry tumbled as they landed, hand still grasping Malfoy’s. The nausea from their travel, and perhaps the aftereffects of shock, left him panting, sweating. Through his swayed vision the marbled flooring looked inviting, beaconing him closer and he longed to rest on it, feel the cold stone against his clammy back.

In the aftermath of Ginny’s death, he had clung to the hope of recovering something tangible, a connection to her that he and their children could hold onto. The absence of her wand was a stark reminder of the finality of her loss, the void left in her absence. Without it, everything was gone, just like she was.

Only belatedly Harry noticed that Malfoy had slipped from his grasp and was hurrying across the hall and up the staircase. Confused as to where he was going, Harry followed him on unsteady feet, holding onto the polished banister with every step and cursing the aches and pains plaguing his body along the way.

Malfoy came to an abrupt halt in the study, one hand braced against the mantel above the fireplace and the other grasping a generous amount of flo-powder, its excess trickling between Malfoy’s shaking fingers and onto the carpeted floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry’s voice cracked lightly. Hiding his embarrassment, he coughed quietly and ran a weary hand through the tangles of his curls. Not one to admit it, Harry wished Malfoy would stay rather than leave him to his thoughts, alone.

“Headauror’s Office,” it was both an answer and a command as Malfoy threw the powder into the fire, it swiftly changing from golden embers to vivid green flames.

“I’m coming,” his tone left no space for disagreement, yet Malfoy, undeterred by his order, stretched out a placating hand.

“Unless you wish to announce to the Wizarding World that their long-awaited Savior has returned, you may want to remain here for the time being,” Harry’s skin prickled at the snide tone, but the idea of reporters, onlookers, worshippers, and critics gaping at him was a dreadful one. “I’ll be right back,” Malfoy promised, his voice soothing now.

His body was begging for rest. A bone-deep exhaustion spreading through him left Harry weak and at a loss for arguments. There was little fight left within him and the soft duvet, the lush pillows of his warm bed were calling for him.

Nodding his head reluctantly and shoulders sagging in defeat, Harry watched as Malfoy stepped through the flames before the fire had a chance to die down to golden cinders.

Clouds had briefly hidden the sun, casting the study into a dim light and a comforting quietude engulfed Harry, if a surprising one. The Manor wasn’t silent per se, he could hear the distant chattering of house-elves, a door was opened and closed somewhere close to him. Through the glass of the windowpanes, Harry heard the chirping of the Ground’s peacocks, the swishing of the trees and he was entirely tempted to curl up on the nearby chesterfield and rest there until Malfoy returned.

When the clouds had passed, a stray ray of sunshine caught on something shiny on the desk, reflecting the light into Harry’s eyes. It was an intricate thing, of fine wood and a brass seal head and when Harry weighted it in his hand, it felt comfortable. Two snakes sat entwined on the seal, bodies wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace. It was very Slytherin of Malfoy, for his insignia to include the image of serpentine creatures as pretty as it was.

Carefully, he placed it back onto the desk and left the room on heavy feet. Crossing the sitting room felt an eternity and sleep caught up with him before he had made it into his room, under his blankets. Harry couldn’t remember if he had taken the time to take off his shoes and dirty clothes or if he would be chastised by Pippy later.

Instead, dreams of his children’s tortured faces and Ginny’s wand chased him through the dreamworld.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Barely one step out of the flames before the Headauror’s office, a bruising hand wrapped around Draco’s wrist, fine bones grinding as someone twisted him around impatiently. Stumbling from exhaustion, he came chest to chest with a glowering Dark Lord.

Tom wore Voldemort’s mask excellently, his irises a burning red and his serpentine features contorted into a nasty snarl one that would have his most loyal Death Eaters running in fear of death. With his wrist still securely within Tom’s claws, Draco wrapped his free arm around the monster’s neck and pressed his face to the strong shoulder cloaked in the darkest robes. The fabric soft and the scent familiar, a shutter of relief shook Draco’s weary shoulders.

They had been too close, wholly unprepared and reckless returning without any backup whatsoever. Capture could have been a realistic possibility and the implications of it left Draco’s throat tight. There was no worse sort of hell than finding your body helpless, retrained, and at the mercy of someone other. And without the ability to truly die, he would have to face the torturous pain of being cut open and stitched up for a near eternity.

A sob shook his shoulders, aching from tension and fear and if he caught Tom off guard with the so very public display of affection, of vulnerability and need for comfort, the other didn’t let on. Instead, Draco’s wrist was let go and two arms snaked around his torso, wrapping him into an embrace that promised safety. One hand traced the bumps of Draco’s spine over the thin fabric of his shirt, a comforting touch even as sharp nails left trails of goosebumps on his skin.

“My Heart,” Tom mumbled into his ear, a tenderness in his tone that slowed Draco’s heart to a steady beat. “You are determined to cast me back to insanity.”

A gentle chiding filled with worry and care, and as Draco blinked up, Voldemort’s mask had crumbled away. Dark brows were drawn together in concern, the fiery red of his irises had cooled to the color of fine wine. It was rare for the King of the Wizarding World to grace the public without his mask. That there was a pretty face hiding under the scales was nothing but a a rumor amongst the young witches and wizards.

Somewhere in the near distance, a door opened and was slammed shut instantly, as though caught in something nefarious, but when Tom didn’t stir, Draco felt no need to turn and check who had joined them, or rather left them.

“I received your owl,” Tom spoke when Draco didn’t answer, too wrapped up in the reassuring scent of tea and ink swirling over his head, the tender touch on his back. His legs were about to give up, but Tom would surely catch him.

“Yeah?” Draco asked almost innocently, pressing his forehead back to his husband’s shoulder.

“I am pleased Potter has interest in meeting with me, however…” Tom paused dramatically, and Draco turned his head toward the man’s throat, taking deep breaths, utterly unconcerned by Tom’s ire.

“However?” Draco inquired tiredly. “However, what?”

“However, your missive failed to mention that you would be going on an adventure today. I had an incredibly uncomfortable morning, my Heart.”

“You had an uncomfortable morning?” Draco asked slowly, repressing a somewhat hysteric giggle at the thought of their uncomfortable morning. “I was nearly captured by Muggles and turned into a test subject. I apologize for having ruined your morning with my panic.”

A hand came up from his back and cradled his chin, first lifting his face slightly to the left and then to the right, as though his spouse was looking for the evidence of the struggle. “Are you hurt?” The tone was dark and promised hell and death.

“No” Draco shook his head, still in Tom’s palm and conveniently ignored the slight twinge in his arms that was there to remind him that someone had managed to lay his hands on him. “There were four. Potter took care of them. Well, three of them; I managed one on my own.”

“Dead?” Tom asked, a flash in his eyes – pride. But Draco shook his head again, slowly, and marveled when the pride in his partner’s eyes did not vanish, only mingled with patient understanding.

“No, just unconscious. Which is why I am here, I think the Aurors should see if they can apprehend the assailants.” He gestured toward the office door behind his shoulder. “Perhaps they are still there.”

"Where had you gone? I couldn’t locate you; it was as if you the earth had swallowed you whole," Draco knew Tom had searched for him, but had been equally sure that Tom wouldn’t have found him with magic. “I even tried scribing for your blood.”

If anything would surprise Draco, it was not the fact that the Dark Lord apparently held a stock of his blood for the sole purposes of scribing for his location.

"They use nonmagical wards," he replied in hushed tones, casting a cautious glance around the room to ensure their privacy. "We went to Potter’s home, and I suspect they were waiting for him to turn up there. They used wards of some sort that blocked most magic."

“These aren’t wards I have seen before,” Draco continued as nausea rose to twist within his stomach. “It blocked all magic to be performed, yet it left magic that had been performed at an earlier time intact. The cloak worked, as did my mental barriers. I just couldn’t alter them to let you in.”

“I suppose they found a way to block a wizard’s access to their own magic, through physical means rather than magical.” Tom furrowed his brow in thought. Concern was written in the fine lines marking the handsome face, the only sign of the Dark Lord’s age.

Draco only nodded, fear curling in his stomach.

Tom’s thumb idly stroked his cheek once before the hand fell away and onto Draco’s shoulders. With distracted movements, the Dark Lord wiped away the dust that had settled on Draco’s shirt and straightened the lapels of his collar. The worry lines on Tom's face softened slightly, replaced by a contemplative expression.

"We’ll find out what it is and counteract it," it was a promise, one Draco hoped they could keep to each other.

“Potter was able to break through, perhaps he knows more.”

“He was, was he now? Defying the odds again, how bothersome,” Tom scrunched up his nose, not entirely out of distaste. “Harry Potter has always been an excellent wizard, chaotic as he may be. What he lacks in form he makes up with power.”

“I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt you to admit that, my Dear,” Draco teased him and drew the man down by his robes to press a quick kiss onto his lips. Lips that stretched into a smile beneath his own. “I will always trump him with knowledge and form,” he received as a mumbled reply and Draco shook his head in exasperation.

“Please inform me in advance the next time you intend on risking your life,” Tom sighed and his featured morphed back into pale, bare skin, scales, and a forked tongue.

“I will be sure to owl you,” Draco responded and turned toward the Headauror’s office, with his back to Tom. A gentle hand on his lower back guided him across the hall, past the empty secretary’s desk, and toward the closed double doors.

Stealing his shoulders and lifting his chin, Draco took a deep breath. A failing attempt at calming the dread within him, but at least he wouldn’t let the Headauror have the satisfaction of seeing Draco’s discomfort.

Not bothering to knock or otherwise announcing his arrival, Draco threw the oak doors open and stepped into the office as though it were his own, with the Dark Lord by his shoulder.
He couldn’t wait to return home.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco sat by the ornate tea set, the delicate porcelain gleaming in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor. The room shimmered with muted hues of blue and gold, a reflection of the refined taste that permeated the ancestral home.

The air held a lingering fragrance of Earl Grey, his preferred flavor, as Draco poured the steaming liquid into a delicate china cup. Potter was still resting, and Tom had found himself called to a meeting, though he had promised to visit later.

Astoria, her tousled brown locks falling over her shoulders, entered the room with a languid stretch. Her voice, tinged with a yawn, carried the remnants of sleep as she greeted Draco.

Draco managed a smile, his gaze softening at the sight of Astoria in her celeste blue morning robe, its fabric catching the copper highlights in her hair. Despite the late hour, she wore an air of carefree relaxation that tugged at Draco's heart.

“It’s nearly four in the afternoon, it hasn’t been morning for a while,” Draco remarked, his smile deepening as he continued to pour the tea. Astoria stuck out her tongue playfully, unburdened by pureblood etiquette, and snatched a crumpet from the platter.

“Oh, come off it, I got off work at 6 am. It is morning for me,” she teased, wrapping herself in a blanket as she settled into the chair opposite Draco. Her movements were graceful, a dance of casual elegance.

Leaning back, Astoria's gaze turned mischievous. "So how is it going with the Savior?" Her smile hinted at the knowledge of their past.

"He can be a proper prick," Draco snipped, his annoyance at her teasing lingering like an aftertaste, casting a shadow over the tea he sipped. He delicately placed the teapot back on its tray, trying to conceal the embarrassment that simmered beneath the surface. To Astoria, he had always been an open book, but the vulnerability of discussing his feelings concerning Harry Potter still left him uneasy.

Astoria, with the ease of someone who had known Draco since their early days, adjusted herself in the chair. She exuded a playful wickedness, reminiscent of the days when they used to huddle in the Slytherin Common Room, hiding from the chaos and pain of the world around them. In those stolen moments, tucked away in a corner of a sofa, they would share their thoughts, dreams, and, on more than one occasion, the secrets of their hearts.

Astoria, astute as ever, had deduced that Draco's infatuation with Harry Potter was more than a passing rivalry, but rather an obsession he wouldn't allow himself to indulge in.

"He tried to strangle me yesterday. Nearly succeeded too," Draco revealed, his irritation tempered. Instantaneously, he had forgiven Potter, understanding the weight of the pressure the man bore. If their positions had been reversed, Draco mused, he might have harbored similar violent inclinations. “And then he saved my life this morning.”

"Did he indeed?" Astoria responded, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face as she remained unperturbed by the revelation. Her laughter rippled through the room as she continued, "So, to make long matters short, you two have returned to the dynamics of your teen years? How am I not surprised?"

Draco shook his head, a wistful smile playing on his lips. "We are not the same as we were as teenagers, Astoria. We have both grown and both suffered. He is under immense stress."

"No need to apologize on his behalf. I am just glad he didn’t succeed in killing you. Yet." Astoria's words carried a lightheartedness, her giggle lingering in the air like the fragrance of their tea.

“I don’t think he will attempt again. Potter doesn’t take death lightly; he wouldn’t want mine on his hands.” Draco lifted his cup once more, the sweetness of the crumpet mingling with the milky brew as he savored the momentary distraction.

"Has he found out yet?" Astoria inquired casually, engaged in her own crumpet-dunking routine while wiping away the crumbs that clung to her morning robe and blanket.

"Found out what?" Draco looked up with a note of what he hoped appeared as confusion.

"Draco,” an admonishment, a tone of disappointment. “That you married his arch-nemesis?" Astoria’s good mood seemed to vanish.

“No.” He shook his head, tracing the rim of his cup with idle fingers in distraction. “I haven’t told him yet. But I intend to, I just have to find the right occasion. And the right words, I suppose.”

“It is not my battle to fight. Though if you care for my suggestion, I urge you to tell him before you manage to gain his trust.” Her eyes took on a hint of urgency, finishing the last of her tea and levitating the empty cup back to the tray. “If I recall correctly, and I always do, you have a history of garnering his suspicions. He is a good soul; he deserves honesty for the sacrifices he has made. If you are intent on working with Harry, he needs to be able to trust you. And as it stands right now, you are choosing to deceive him for your own comfort.”

“I know!” Draco nearly shouted, not out of anger at Astoria, but himself. “I will, I will,” he added a little more hushed.

“I just…need to help him,” Draco said when she remained quiet, looking at him with a careful gaze. “If Potter knows now, he won’t take my help. If I tell him after…”

“Draco, Darling, the platonic love of my life. You are not hearing me. Tell him now. Or I will.” Astoria’s face was open and honest. Draco was smart enough to know when she was no longer jesting.

“If you tell him after, he will swear to destroy your life. He is the Harry Potter from Hogwarts and yet not. The years have made him capable of cruelty, of murder. And I would wager my silk gowns that your actions played a significant part in that. Not–” She raised her hand in an effort to stop Draco’s rebuttal, “Not that I do not understand your reasoning. I agree with your motivations, I do.”

Astoria leaned forward, a hand carefully placed on his knee, a comforting touch. “The Light side would have brought ruin upon us for contemplating the abolishment of the Statute of Secrecy. I know what your mother endured at the hands of those Muggles, even for those short moments.”

She leaned away again, casually tucking a flyaway strand back behind her ear and nodded, clearly wishing for Draco to understand.

And he did.

Regardless of his motivations, Potter would not agree with his methods and perhaps the decision had been a dangerous one, as thoroughly thought through as it had been. But Draco couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He had staved off the witch hunts by nearly a decade, had given the Wizarding World order and leadership, had given families a chance to rebuild after the war.

It wasn’t as if he had brought back Lord Voldemort. Draco had returned Tom Marvolo Riddle from the dead, and with him a leader focused on power, strength, and protection against Muggles.

Yet he could still taste the ash on his tongue, the rancid taste of thestral heart. The horrid sounds of ripping the veil and retrieving something that did not belong to the living world haunted him in his dreams. The threats Death had made for Draco’s crimes of reviving Tom echoed hollowly and cold in his soul.

“Draco,” Astoria impatiently waved her delicate hand before his face to garner his attention.

Draco blinked, coming back to the present, and sighed deeply. "You're right, as always. I'll tell him. Soon." He offered her a weak smile, grateful for her unwavering support and counsel.

Astoria returned his smile, her eyes softening. "Good. You know I'll be here for you, no matter what. Just... be careful, Draco. Harry's been through so much already."

Draco nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "I know. And I intend to help him, Astoria. I just hope he can see that."

With a final squeeze of his hand, Astoria rose from her chair, her movements unhurried. "He will, Draco. In time, he will."

~~~~~*~~~~~

When Harry left his room toward evening, the light dwindling with every minute, he was surprised by the presence of a young man, not much older than himself, in the sitting room.

It took a mere second to recognize the dark brown curls, the aristocratic nose, the dark eyes that rose slowly from the book in his folded lap and studied Harry intently.

The man was casual, at home, and didn’t rise from his seat when Harry took a careful step forward, letting his wand slip out from its place in his sleeve.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter.” The smooth voice was as pleasant as Harry remembered it being. The posh accent was strong, practiced, and the words held a fake sort of warmth that spoke of disingenuity.

Harry didn’t bother replying, he inched forward, his shoulders tense and his stance widening. Ready to cast.

“My name is Edward Vincent Millay; I am here on behalf of Lord Voldemort to consult you on your case.” The man continued when it became apparent that Harry wouldn’t answer him.

“Drop it, Voldemort. I’m not stupid; I am very much aware of who you are.” Harry was shaking. His hand brandished his wand and every desire within him screamed to cast the Killing Curse before the other had a chance to pull his own wand. But he couldn’t, the small voice tucked in the back of his mind, the voice of a teenager, begged him not to cast an Unforgivable.

Voldemort, his treacherously handsome face unbothered, smiled lightly, the corners of his lips curling upward as though pleased Harry hadn’t been fooled by his face, his mask. The dark eyes changed as Harry stared on, shifting from the brown he remembered to the crimson red he despised. The hairs on his arms stood and fear mingled with hatred.

Yet, Harry couldn’t move himself to curse the monster, the strings of magic hesitating as Harry’s apprehension grew to an internal riot.

“Very well, Harry Potter. Clever as ever.” Voldemort slowly closed the book and laid it to the side, briefly turning his gaze away in clear demonstration that he wasn’t afraid of Harry, wasn’t concerned by his presence. It fueled the fire within Harry and a hiss escaped between his lips, pulled into a snarl as they were.

“What do you want?” The air crackled with tension as Harry continued to face Voldemort. The façade didn’t fool him, it didn’t hide who was hiding just underneath the surface. It infuriated him for it was another attempt to deceive him, to lower his guards and trust he was safe. Who now stood before him, in a form that was both familiar and alien, was nothing but the monster he had both defeated and fled from.

And with every fiber of his being, he wished he could kill the man.

In the dimly lit room, the low fire in the hearth cast long shadows. In the Dark Lord’s presence, the darkness felt the more suffocating, almost alive and reaching for Harry with tantalizing tendrils. And yet, they barely seemed to as much as touch Malfoy, who strode between them in a placating manner. A mediator of some sorts, both hands outstretched, wand at the ready and pointed at Voldemort in warning.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked when Voldemort didn’t respond. He knew why the monster was here, had requested his presence, his aid, himself, as much as he despised himself for it. His voice was cold, a sharp edge of bitterness cutting through the silence.

Voldemort’s expression remained impassive, betraying nothing of the emotions that might be churning beneath the surface. Harry swore he would break beneath the man’s ice-cold surface.

"I am here to offer my assistance." He spoke evenly, his tone betrayed nothing of the traps Harry knew he’d find eventually. “If I am not mistaken, it was you who requested this meeting.”

Not deeming a response necessary, Harry merely scoffed. He would not cower before the monster. This was a mutual agreement, with mutual gain. Voldemort needed him as much as Harry needed Voldemort and he wouldn’t let the bastard spin it any other way.

A flicker of amusement danced in Voldemort’s red eyes, a subtle shift that grated on Harry's nerves. "Yes, Potter. Assistance. I have information that could lead you to Albus, Lily, and James."

Harry's breath caught at the mention of his children, their names rolling of the Dark Lord’s tongue like living bait. A surge of protectiveness rose within him. "What do you know about them? Where are they?"

Voldemort raised a hand, a gesture of calmness that only served to fuel Harry's anger. "All in good time, Harry Potter. But first, we must discuss terms."

Harry's jaw tightened, though he couldn’t argue that he hadn’t expected a steep price or demand of some sorts.

Voldemort’s lips curled into a faint smile, the expression sending a chill down Harry's spine. "A temporary alliance, Potter. You and I, as well as dear Draco here, working together to achieve a common goal."

The notion was repugnant to Harry, the idea of aligning himself with the man he despised more than any other. Yet, the thought of his children, lost in a muggle ward, tortured for their magic, spurred him to consider the unthinkable.

"Why should I trust you?" Harry's voice was low, barely containing the fury that threatened to boil over.

"Trust is a luxury we cannot afford to indulge in, Harry Potter," Voldemort replied evenly. "But necessity can be a powerful motivator."

A bitter laugh escaped Harry's lips, the sound filled with disbelief and scorn. "I do believe that I have every right to demand some assurance. You're asking me to trust the man who murdered—"

"That was a different time," Voldemort spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight. "I've made mistakes, grave ones. But I seek redemption and balance, not revenge."

Silence hung heavy in the air, the weight of Harry's decision pressing down on him like a vice. The bane of his existence, he hated and distrusted Voldemort with every fiber of his being, but the love for his children burned brighter still.

Slowly, reluctantly, Harry nodded. "Fine. That’s obviously bullshit, but we can discuss a deal. Just know this, Voldemort – I will never forgive you for what you've done."

A hint of triumph gleamed in Voldemort’s eyes. "Forgiveness is overrated, Potter. Let us focus on the task at hand."

“Go ahead then,” Harry waved an angry hand around, his wand singing with the movement, and he relished in the tension that rose through Malfoy at the sight of it. “What is it that you want from me?”

Voldemort’s smile was a mockery of warmth, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “First, we need to establish some ground rules for this… partnership,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “I will provide you with information and resources to find your children. In return, you will assist me with a matter that requires your unique influence.”

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, the wood pressing into his palm almost painfully. His pulse quickened, and a storm of emotions swirled within him—anger, fear, and an underlying desperation. “And what matter would that be?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, each word weighted with suspicion.

Voldemort leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers as he regarded Harry with a look of calculated patience. “There are certain individuals who have taken advantage of the chaos in the wizarding world, exploiting our vulnerabilities.”

“You want me to kill them,” Harry guessed, his eyes widening in surprise. Dread curled down his spine like wet fog, chilling him to the core.

But Voldemort laughed, a pleasant sound that might have been soothing if Harry hadn’t known the true malice behind it. “No,” the handsome Dark Lord replied, mirth still clear on his face. “I don’t require you to kill them. I can accomplish such feats myself. No, I desire you by my side. You’d make a pretty sight, and how could the Light deny me with you sitting right beside us.”

Malfoy turned his head slightly, fixing Voldemort with an incredulous stare, as though he hadn’t quite expected such a demand from the Dark Lord either. Harry coughed, shock leaving him choking on his own saliva. His wand hand sagged, and he took an uneasy step back.

“You wish to court me?” Harry gasped, embarrassed as his voice rose several octaves higher, cracking under the strain of disbelief.

Voldemort laughed again as though it had been Harry who had jested but shook his head while his fiery red stare pierced through Harry, sending shivers down his spine.

“I merely request your presence, your support for my… endeavors. I am not even asking for your undying loyalty, Harry Potter, or unwavering agreement to my ruling.” Voldemort cocked his head to the side, the dark curls falling into his face. With a leisurely hand, he swept them back, the golden light of the flames catching on a piece of jewelry on his finger.

Harry’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend the implications of Voldemort's words. The thought of aligning himself, even superficially, with the man he had spent his life fighting against was abhorrent.

“What do you say, Harry Potter?” Voldemort’s voice was soft, almost coaxing. “Will you stand with me, for the sake of your children?”

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. “Fine. But remember – I will never trust you, and I will never stop looking for a way to end you.”

Voldemort’s smile widened, a hint of triumph gleaming in his eyes. “That’s all I ask. For now, let us focus on our common goal. Together, we will achieve what neither of us could accomplish alone.”

Harry cursed himself for jumping when Voldemort stood, his elegant long legs striding across the room past Malfoy. He came to a halt a few steps before Harry, and Tom Riddle’s face was almost kind as the monster beneath extended a casual hand, offering a formal handshake.

With his heart thudding in his throat, Harry took the remaining steps. The contorted faces of his children, the ones that haunted his dreams, fueled every movement as he reached out with his left hand to seal the deal with the devil.

Pain shot through Harry the moment his fingertips brushed Voldemort’s skin. It wasn’t a searing agony that left him breathless, but rather a sharp jolt, like touching an electric plug or the static shock from a fleece blanket in winter. He stared at their joined hands, feeling the unsettling tingle coursing through him.

He failed to notice the flicker of surprise in Voldemort’s eyes, his attention riveted by the piece of jewelry on the man’s hand. Harry's gaze was drawn irresistibly to the intricate design of ruby and diamond eyes set into the winding bodies of two snakes, encircling the left ring finger. A wedding band.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s distant mumble reached him, tinged with something almost pleading. The sound barely registered as Harry remained fixated on the ring. The sight of it ignited a primal fury within him, an insult to everything he had fought for and lost.

Without thinking, Harry’s free hand, still clutching his wand, swung up and drove a fist into Voldemort’s furiously present nose. The impact was immensely satisfying, a forceful shockwave radiating through Harry’s arm. Voldemort staggered back, caught off guard by the sudden assault.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Harry stood there, panting with rage and adrenaline. Voldemort straightened, his hand slowly rising to touch his nose, blood trickling from one nostril. His eyes, now blazing red with fury, locked onto Harry's.

The Dark Lord’s expression twisted into one of cold amusement, despite the pain. “Impressive, Potter,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You still have fight left in you.”

Harry failed to respond. The room spun around him as his gaze shifted from Voldemort’s hand, now dabbing at the blood on his face, to Malfoy’s outstretched hand.

It was as if Malfoy wanted to stop Harry, to halt the train of thought that had taken off and pieced together the small, damning details. The light caught on Malfoy’s ring as well, the golden band of intertwined snakes a mocking testament to Harry’s gullibility.

Chapter Text

“Potter, wait,” Malfoy’s panicked plea assaulted Harry. Having followed his flight from the sitting room, Malfoy was now nearly crowding Harry into the corner between the bed and the bathroom door.

Harry barely heard Malfoy speak; he was pacing back and forth, his mind working feverishly.

Something had been nagging at the edges of Harry's consciousness, a subtle disquiet that manifested like the faint tolling of a high-pitched warning bell. Each time his gaze landed on Voldemort’s hand, the unease had resurfaced.

The left ring finger, adorned with an exquisite and intricate ring, had captured Harry's attention. The symbol struck a chord of recognition within him; he had encountered it before, in the study and on another's hand.

It was a symbol that transcended the conventional master-servant relationship, a realization that crashed over Harry like an overwhelming tidal wave.

“You married Voldemort. You married Voldemort,” Harry uttered, the words feeling disconnected and foreign, as if their true meaning eluded him.

“You are bound to the Dark Lord in marriage. The ring you are wearing is one of marriage,” he attempted to clarify, his mind grappling with the weight of the revelation.

“Potter,” Malfoy interjected, his tone soft and placating, as though attempting to calm the impending storm of Harry's disgust and fury.

Harry found himself speechless, desperately searching Malfoy's eyes for any sign of deception or a misunderstanding that would unravel the truth.

Over a week had passed since Harry's arrival, nearly two weeks during which Malfoy could have disclosed that he hadn't merely resurrected the tyrant but had bound himself to the Dark Lord in marriage.

It was a partnership that, on the surface at least, seemed to imply equal measure, equal respect. Malfoy, the consort, had willingly entwined his fate with that of a monster—one who had wrought destruction upon both Muggles and Wizards alike.

Malfoy was a monster himself.

"Oh Merlin," Harry murmured, his voice hushed, as he stumbled backward, desperately seeking purchase against the wall behind him. The door seemed impossibly distant, and Harry felt too weak to Apparate within the confines of the Manor. Trapped and ensnared, he wished nothing more than to get away from their twisted vows and Malfoy’s pleading eyes.

"Potter," Malfoy attempted once more, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "You have to understand. I had little choice."

"Choice?" Harry's voice teetered on the edge of hysteria as he screamed, "You had every choice, and the choice you made was to screw the worst human—no, the worst being on this earth? Is that it, Malfoy? Are you the Dark Lord's pawn? Or are you his willing accomplice?"

Disgust was too soft, too kind of a word. Harry shook with abhorrence, with revulsion at not only the thought of Malfoy’s intimate relationship but the horrific betrayal he had once again to face. He had known not to trust the man, and yet he had once again fallen for Malfoy’s deception. No, he had fallen victim to his own credulity.

“I am his willing spouse; I am his equal. I am responsible for the healing of his soul, for the binding of Lord Voldemort. I know he was your greatest adversary, but for me, he was my redemption and I his. The one decision I made independently that I will never regret. He is who he is because of our bond, and I do not regret my choices.” Malfoy trembled, not with rage it appeared, but with an unyielding belief that resonated to the depths of the man’s being. His words were a testament to his unwavering conviction, and Harry found himself succumbing to fits of hysterical laughter in response.

"I have stood as his spouse for more than a decade, Potter. I've witnessed the transformative power a healed soul can have. He has come to cherish me, to love me." Malfoy was pleading, hands outstretched as if to catch Harry, to keep him from escaping. It was almost as if Harry wished Malfoy would dare, only for the excuse to transition this conversation into violence.

“Love you.” Harry spat, his anger almost a tangible thing. “He can’t feel love, Malfoy. You are stupid. Voldemort is the product of Amortentia, he can’t feel love. He never will!”

"Is that what you were told? Perhaps to explain away the lack of love and care he received in his youth? Mistakes that were made by the late Headmaster, perhaps? He is a product of his environment, Potter, as much as a product of his own destruction. But he deserved love as a child, as an adolescent. Perhaps he wouldn't have gone through such great lengths to destroy his soul but for the self-hatred and pain he grew up with."

Harry didn’t deem a response was necessary, a new realization clawing to the surface. “Oh gods, you made me swear not to kill your spouse. Knowing I had assumed Astoria was your wife. You fucking arsehole, you deceived me into a vow to protect Voldemort?!”

Harry couldn’t hear Malfoy’s response, his ears were ringing and his heart was pounding. His vision blurred with the intensity of his emotions, and he felt the weight of his wand in his hand, a desperate urge to use it, to do something, anything to alleviate the overwhelming sense of betrayal and confusion.

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the tension between them. Harry's breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to process the enormity of what Malfoy had revealed. The trust he had tentatively placed in Malfoy was shattered, replaced by a seething anger that threatened to consume him.

Malfoy, sensing the precariousness of the situation, took a cautious step forward, his hands still raised in a gesture of placation. "Potter, please. I know this is difficult to accept, but you have to understand the circumstances. Tom has changed, and our bond has given him a chance at redemption."

"Redemption?" Harry's voice was a mixture of disbelief and fury. "You keep saying that word. You think that monster can be redeemed? After everything he's done, all the lives he's destroyed?"

Malfoy's eyes were earnest, filled with a conviction that Harry couldn't comprehend. "Yes, I do. Because I've seen it. I've seen the change in him, the way he cares for me, the way he's tried to make amends for his past. It's not perfect, but it's a start."

Harry shook his head, the grip on his wand tightening. "I don't know if I can believe that. I know I can’t believe you.”

Malfoy dared to take another step toward him, and Harry pointed his wand directly at the man’s face.

“Stay where you are. I can’t kill you, but I will make your life a fucking hell. I can hurt you in other ways.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

Potter meant it and Draco knew it. He could see it in the angry set of the man’s shoulders, the tick in the muscle by his jaw. Potter would make him pay for this and he would welcome it. It was his own redemption, his own payment for the horrible things he had done in the past: the lives he himself had taken and returned, the deaths he was responsible for.

He knew he was being masochistic, self-pitying and pathetic. But he couldn’t help himself, he had no other choice. For years he had fought for a way to redeem himself to the world, to Harry Potter, and this was his chance. If he could find Potter’s children, if he could garner the man’s forgiveness, perhaps he could forgive himself.

“I will swear any vow you wish of me,” he promised, watching Potter wear a path into the wooden floors like a wildcat in a circus trailer. “I will forfeit my magic, my life–“

“Why?” Potter’s voice was a jagged whisper, his eyes a vivid green that burned with anger and hurt. It caused something within Draco to break, a resistance he had so carefully held onto. A desire to confess, perhaps, wound its way up and out. “Why are you so keen on helping me? What is in it for you?”

“Forgiveness,” Draco answered too quickly, seeing suspicion shuttering Potter’s gaze again. “Hear me out,” Draco pleaded, his voice raw with urgency. “I have destroyed so much when I fixed the cabinet. I tried to kill Dumbledore; I am responsible for the deaths of so many classmates that I see their faces as a blur during my nightmares.”

Potter didn’t say anything but crossed his arms over his chest and stared Draco down.

“I killed people, I abused dark magic, and I am destined to pay the price for it upon my death. I know the crimes I committed against the Fates by bringing Tom back, and I will pay for it when my soul transcends beyond the veil.”

“But if I can bring some good into the world, if I can mend some of the mistakes I have made…” his voice cracked, and he moved to hide his face with his hands. “Perhaps some of my sins can be forgiven. It is selfish, I know, but I have to try. I have to righten the scales of justice.”

Potter’s silence weighed heavily between them, his expression inscrutable. Draco’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the guilt and remorse that haunted him.

“Potter, I am not seeking absolution from you, nor do I expect your forgiveness. But I need to believe that I can atone for my past, that I can find some redemption in helping you. It’s the only way I can live with myself.”

Potter’s gaze softened slightly, the rigid lines of his posture easing as he considered Draco’s words. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of Draco’s confession and Potter’s decision pressing down on them both.

Draco took another step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please, let me help you. Let me prove that I am more than the sum of my mistakes. For your children, and for the chance to make things right.”

The air was thick with tension, but for the first time, there was a flicker of understanding in Potter’s eyes. It was a fragile thing, a tentative bridge between them, but it was enough to give Draco hope.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice low and measured. “Alright, Malfoy. We’ll do this together. But know this—any betrayal, any deception, and I will end you. I don’t care what you’ve become or what you seek. My children come first.”

Draco nodded, a mixture of relief and determination flooding through him. “Understood, Potter. We will find them, and I will do whatever it takes to help.”

“Good,” Potter said, nodding curtly. “Now leave me alone. I need to think.”

“Very well,” Draco relented, his heart still in his throat but hope blossoming like a small snowdrop after the last snow. “You know where to find me – find us. Goodnight, Potter.”

He didn’t wait for Potter’s response but hurried quietly out of the room and closed the door behind him. The wood pressed into his back as he leaned against it, catching his breath and sorting his mind.

Almost silently, Tom strode across the room, stopping before him and lifting Draco’s head with gentle hands, his eyes searching for any sign of hurt or discomfort before he pulled Draco into his arms.

“You knew he wouldn’t take it well,” Tom whispered, mindful of who could be listening in from the other side of the door. “You said it yourself: Harry Potter’s trust is a finicky thing.”

Draco exhaled shakily, resting his head against Tom’s chest. “I should have told him. It felt like a knife twisting in my gut, keeping it from him. I didn’t know how to breach such a topic. ‘Hey, by the way, I married your parents’ murderer’ just doesn’t sound quite right.”

Tom didn’t laugh, though a hum vibrated through his chest to let Draco know he was listening.

“But now it’s too late, I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me,” he continued, his cheeks heating red when tears gathered on his lashes.

Tom’s fingers traced soothing circles on Draco’s back. “Now that he knows, there’s no undoing it. But Potter is a forgiving soul; he always seeks the good in people. It might be considered a weakness, but he’s turned it into his strength.”

Draco pulled back slightly to look into Tom’s eyes, searching for reassurance. “I just hope it’s enough. For the children’s sake, and for the Wizarding World, we need him on our side.”

Tom nodded, his expression grave. “There’s something else. Something I must discuss with you.” He hesitated, the weight of his words heavy in the silence and Draco’s heart sank.

“What is it, Tom?” he prompted him when Tom didn’t continue.

But his husband didn’t respond, he placed a finger to his lips and pulled Draco toward their rooms.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The realization had struck him like a lightning bolt, electrifying every fiber of his being. Tom felt the static wind through his finger, surge up his arms, and nestle into his chest, igniting the remnants of his fragmented soul with a fiery warmth.

It was a call to come home, a summoning to the other soul that had entwined so thoroughly with his own that they were indistinguishable, bound in an eternal dance of shadows and light.

In that moment, a desire surged within him, as potent as a siren’s call, heating his core with an irresistible yearning. He craved to touch, to seek out the sense of completeness that had tantalized him in those fleeting seconds. Even the pain of the assault had been softened by the blaze Harry's soul had rekindled within him, transforming torment into a peculiar form of ecstasy.

A possessiveness gripped him, fierce and unrelenting, like a dragon guarding its most treasured hoard. Harry was his, a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his existence. The revelation wrapped around his heart like a serpent, coiling tighter with each beat, whispering promises of an unbreakable bond. He felt an overwhelming protectiveness, a need to shield and keep Harry close, to never let him slip away.

Tom's mind was a tempest of metaphors, each more vivid than the last. Harry was the missing piece of a celestial puzzle, the final note in a hauntingly beautiful symphony, the last star in a constellation that completed the night sky. He was the flame that lit the dark corners of Tom's soul, casting away the shadows of his past sins.

This connection, this profound intertwining of their souls, was a realization that transcended mere possession. It was a divine claim, a cosmic truth that defied the bounds of mortality. Harry was not just a Horcrux; he was the very essence of Tom's soul, a part of him that he would protect and cherish with a fervor that burned brighter than any star. Tom's revelation settled into him with a weight that was both heavy and exultant: Harry would never be Potter again. He was his Harry, his Soul.

Tom took a deep breath, his eyes darkening. “I believe the Horcrux within Harry Potter still exists. I didn’t realize it before, but in his touch our souls recognized one another. He is as part of my soul as I am of his.”

He could feel the turmoil burning in Draco’s eyes, the storm of emotions raging just beneath the surface. The revelation of Harry being his Horcrux had changed everything, and yet, it had changed nothing. Draco was still his heart, his strength, his anchor in a world that had once been consumed by darkness. Through their bond, Tom felt Draco’s emotional tempest—jealousy, protectiveness, confusion—all colliding and intertwining.

Draco stood before him, his feelings laid bare. “Potter is your Horcrux,” he whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air. The realization seemed to weigh him down, and Tom could feel the tension radiating from him like a palpable force.

“Yes,” Tom replied, his voice soft yet unwavering. “He is a part of me, Draco. A part I didn’t know was still missing until now.”

Draco’s gaze searched his own, seeking reassurance, understanding, something to hold onto in the midst of this revelation. Through their bond, Tom could sense Draco's struggle to comprehend and accept this new reality. “This changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“It changes some things,” Tom conceded, stepping closer to his husband, his fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. “I won’t be able to let him slip through my fingers again. We will have to keep him close. I wish to keep him, of his free will, of course.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

For what triumph would there be in keeping Harry locked up in the dungeons? To bind him by force would be a hollow victory, an echo of the past that neither wished to repeat. No, he desired more than mere possession. He wanted Harry’s willing heart, his trust freely given.

That is the true challenge, and the true reward.

They must prove to Harry that with them, he finds not captivity, but belonging. They must demonstrate that their cause was his, that their intentions were aligned with Harry’s deepest desires and fears. Only then will Harry choose to stay, and only then will Tom’s soul be as complete as it could be.

“You cannot keep this a secret from Potter. You have to tell Potter. We have to tell him,” Draco insisted, his voice steeled and eyes clear. Though Tom could still feel the whirlwind of emotions beyond their bond, an insecurity he would not allow Draco to wallow in long if this persisted. But for the time being, he had learned, he would leave his husband to grapple with this revelation on his own until he would accept Tom’s reassurances instead of interpreting them as placations.

“We begin with honesty and integrity,” Tom replied, his voice unwavering. “We must lay bare our intentions and our pasts, no matter how painful or incriminating. Harry must see that we are transparent, that we have nothing to hide from him. We must help him find his children, proving that our promises are not empty words but actionable commitments. He must feel that he is valued, that he is essential to us. Only then will he see that staying with us is not a compromise, but a fulfillment of his destiny.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

The night had been a torturous ordeal, haunted by fears and despair. A mere wall separated him from a being so cruel and inhumane that it seemed an affront to call whatever resided within those bones, human. Now, this creature, cloaked in an alluring guise, lay presumably calm and comfortably beside Malfoy, his husband.

Harry couldn't determine what weighed heavier on his heart: the tangled web of lies Malfoy had woven, or the insult to his parents and all those who had perished in the war, embodied by his continued presence in this bed. Without question, he should be gathering his things and leaving, finding a way to protect his family from both Muggles and Voldemort on his own.

And yet, here he was, accepting help from the very monster who had orchestrated so much suffering. The shame burned within him, a searing ache that gnawed at his core. How could he justify this to himself, let alone to those who had believed in him, who had fought alongside him in the Order? He had sworn to protect the world from Voldemort, to eradicate his darkness from their lives. And now, he was entwined in a pact with that same darkness.

The memory of Voldemort's atrocities, the countless lives lost, and the pain inflicted on his loved ones, surged within him like a relentless tide. His parents, Sirius, Remus—the faces of those taken from him flashed before his eyes, each one a reminder of the cost of his enemy’s existence.

From dusk until dawn, Harry had gripped his wand, pointing it at the door in case one of the two decided to dispose of him in his sleep. Therefore, Harry now sat stiffly and reluctantly at the pompous dining table of the formal dining room, opposite a casual Voldemort and a fidgety Draco Malfoy.

Harry felt the weight of sleep deprivation pressing down on him like an iron cloak. His eyes burned, heavy and gritty, as if he’d spent the night staring into a sandstorm. Every movement felt sluggish, his limbs resisting each command, as though he were wading through thick, invisible molasses. His head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, and his thoughts were tangled, slow to form and quick to dissolve into incoherence.

“What is it, Malfoy? Afraid I will curse the two of you?” Harry mocked, trying little to hide his temper as the man eyed him for the third time in less than two minutes. “You have made sure I won’t, so stop looking at me like that.”

Unflinching in the face of Harry’s ire, Malfoy observed him with a blend of concern and apprehension. Harry wished farewell to whatever little peace he might have found that morning.

“Out with it,” he ground through his teeth and dropped his fork onto the plate of beans and toast. A surprisingly boring breakfast for a vicious Dark Lord and his fucking bastard of a husband.

"Potter," Malfoy began tentatively, his voice a fragile thread in the charged air. "There's something else you need to know."

Harry turned to look at Malfoy directly, his tired eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Oh, bloody hell. What now?"

Malfoy hesitated, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow before he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "When Tom was resurrected again... all of his soul pieces were resurrected as well.”

Voldemort stood, moving slowly and deliberately around the table to stand behind Malfoy. He rested his hands on Malfoy's shoulders, the touch both possessive and commanding. The ring on his finger gleamed in the morning light, a cruel mockery, an insult to Harry’s senses. The monster nodded contemplatively. “They merged, all except for one." Both men now looked at Harry, waiting for him to catch on, to understand the hint they were handing him.

The revelation hit Harry like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs as he stared at Voldemort, disbelief and horror warring within him. The room seemed to close in on him, his pulse roared in his ears.

"You're lying," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "That's impossible."

Every fiber of his being screamed in denial, yet the truth hung heavy in the air, an oppressive weight pressing down on him. His mind raced, grappling with the implications, the enormity of what he was being told. A cold dread settled in his stomach, twisting like a knife as he fought to comprehend the full scope of the revelation.

Voldemort regarded Harry with something akin to sympathy, a twisted mockery of understanding. "Oh, but it's quite true, Harry. I will not lie to you. It appears to have already found a soul it felt at home with."

Harry's mind raced, memories flashing before his eyes — the scar on his forehead, the connection to Voldemort he had thought severed. Each fragment of recollection sharpened the growing dread within him. "But Dumbledore said... He told me the Horcrux inside me would be destroyed."

"A theory the old bird barely tested," Voldemort sneered, his treacherously handsome face twisting with contempt. "You were always a convenient pawn in his game."

The truth crashed over Harry, waves of nausea and anger churning within him, the betrayal and horror melding into a storm of emotions he struggled to contain. His fists clenched involuntarily, nails biting into his palms as he felt the last of his autonomy slip away. The realization cut deeper than any wound: he had no home, no support, not even his soul belonged to him. Harry suppressed a hiccup of a sob. What would Voldemort demand from him now that he held a piece of him?

Voldemort's expression softened, his lips stretching into a kind, placating smile. "I want nothing from you, Harry.” Voldemort answered as though he had read his mind. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth and Harry could taste it. “But you must understand the gravity of your situation. You are tethered to me in ways you cannot comprehend."

"How can this be true? How is it possible that I never sensed your presence in all these years? The scar has been quiet. How did I not know?" He wished he hadn’t left the bed this morning, he wished he had never turned to Malfoy for help for he would still be oblivious now if he hadn’t.

"It seems the fragment of my soul ceased to recognize its original vessel and fully integrated with yours," Voldemort continued, the notion causing a wave of revulsion to wash over Harry.

"How long have you been aware of this?" Harry turned to Malfoy; his voice heavy with accusation.

"We only realized it during the night," Malfoy confessed, his tone still almost a whisper. "I swear, I disclosed it to you as soon as we discovered. I will no longer withhold anything from you."

His eyes beseeched Harry's, a mix of guilt and earnestness shining in them. Harry didn’t believe him. "We never imagined the soul fragment would remain. All the others returned to Tom, why not yours? When you shook his hand, when you hit him, Tom sensed it reaching for his own soul through your touch. That was our first indication."

"Oh gods," Harry nearly whimpered, his voice cracking with a mix of despair and disbelief. He wanted to fold his arms and rest his heavy head onto the table before him. "I thought it was over, I thought all of that was behind me."

Voldemort's interruption cut through the air; his tone unnervingly calm. "There are methods, I’m sure," he interjected, "ways to sever soulmates..."

"We are NOT– " Harry erupted, his voice rising in fiery fury and freezing panic, "never have been, never will be, soulmates!" His words echoed with raw emotion, a vehement denial that shook the room.

"We are not soulmates," Harry repeated into the quiet, the shock and revulsion evident in his widened eyes and trembling voice.

"Of course," Voldemort responded, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes at Harry's outburst. "I misspoke. There are ways to untangle two souls so deeply entwined that they almost form a single entity, but that are most certainly not soulmates."

"Right, yes. How do we sever it?" Harry's voice was strained.

Voldemort regarded him with a calculating gaze, assessing Harry's resolve. "I have never had to consider such necessities," he explained coolly. "But it can be done, I believe."

"Tell me what needs to be done," Harry demanded, his jaw clenched with determination.

"First, we need to locate the remaining Horcrux within you," Voldemort began, his voice taking on a more instructive tone. "Destroying the ties from within will weaken the bond significantly, then we will have to guide my soul piece back to its rightful place, with me."

Harry nodded, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities. "And after that?"

"After that," Voldemort continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, "You’ll have to heal the wound such a fragmentation will cause to your own soul."

Harry absorbed the information, his mind racing with the weight of the path ahead. "I'll do whatever it takes," he vowed, his voice resolute.

Voldemort's smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "I expected nothing less, Harry," he remarked, a hint of admiration in his tone and Harry wanted to punch him again for using his name so casually. “However, such a ritual should only be performed at Winter Solstice, when dark magic is at its strongest. The fact remains that you and I are still connected until at least then, Harry."

“Great. Fantastic,” Harry said tiredly and pushed himself from his chair and patted his trouser pockets to confirm the Hollows were still there. “Well, I’ll see you then.”

Harry saluted the men with two fingers before he apparated through the wards of the Manor, the House letting him go reluctantly with a promise that he would be back – what for he didn’t tell her – and ignored the curses and pleas Malfoy and Voldemort threw at him for his rapid departure.

Chapter Text

Landing in the familiar living room of a cozy apartment in Shoreditch, London, Harry immediately felt embraced by the comforting scent of old books, ink, and coffee. Soft morning light filtered through the gauzy IKEA curtains, stray sunbeams illuminating the dust dancing through the air. He ignored the small splinch on his wrist, caused by exhaustion and lack of focus.

The apartment was quiet, except for a tabby cat meowing plaintively, its morning nap rudely interrupted by Harry’s sudden arrival. The cat stretched unhurriedly and pranced over to greet him, weaving between his ankles. "Quill," he murmured, bending down to stroke the cat's soft fur. "You remember me, don't you?"

Quill answered with a purr, pressing his head into Harry’s palm. As Harry scratched the cat's chin, the bedroom door opened with a creak.

A bushy-haired woman stepped out, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She was still in her pajamas, her hair standing in all directions from sleep. She hadn't noticed Harry yet, her focus on making her way to the kitchen.

"Quill, what are you doing out here?" Hermione mumbled, not fully awake, before she looked up and saw him.

"Harry!" she gasped, her eyes widening in shock. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at him as if he were a ghost. Then, with a sob, she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him.

His voice trembled as he whispered, “Mione,” a wave of overwhelming relief crashing over him, nearly bringing him to his knees.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped; her eyes wide with shock as she looked at him. “Oh, thank Merlin!”

“Oh God, you are real,” she whispered, her words muffled as she buried her face in his shoulder. The intensity of her embrace spoke volumes, her fingers clutching at his shirt as if afraid he might vanish.

“I’m so sorry, ’Mione,” he whispered into her curly hair, wrapping his arms around her tightly. The familiar scent of coconut and almond filled his senses, grounding him in the moment. Her warmth and the familiarity of her presence brought him a semblance of peace.

“Why?” she demanded, pulling back and staring up at him with tears streaming down her golden cheeks. Hermione looked so young, seemingly untouched by time. Her smooth, radiant skin showed no signs of fine lines or wrinkles, and her deep brown eyes remained as clear and clever as they had been at Hogwarts, as they had been a year ago. “It’s not your fault, Harry. It’s not your fault!”

“I lost Ginny,” he choked out, trembling with grief. “And the kids, Hermione... I lost them too.”

She was crying and nodding, not in judgment but in sympathy. "I should have fought harder, Hermione. I should have been better prepared," Harry's voice cracked. "Ginny is dead because I refused to carry my wand, and the kids... God knows where they are, suffering because I failed to protect them. And now I'm putting you in danger by being here, but I had nowhere else to go."

Hermione's grip on him tightened. “Harry, listen to me. You did everything you could, I know you. We will find them; we will bring them back. You are not alone in this. You are never alone.”

Her words were a balm to his tormented soul, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

“I am so glad you are here, Harry,” Hermione said, looking at him earnestly, honesty shimmering beneath her long lashes. “And I am so very sorry for what happened. Sit,” she urged, guiding him to the sofa. She hastily pushed pillows and throw blankets out of his way, her movements hurried but gentle. A book or two fell with a soft thud onto the floor, but she paid them no mind.

Gingerly, he sat down, his body aching from exhaustion. He leaned his head against the backrest, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him. Hermione dashed over to one of the cubed bookshelves and pulled her wand from a hollowed-out book. The vine wood glinted lightly within her palm as she spelled the book back into its place. Harry wondered what had possessed Hermione to do such unmentionable things to her prized possessions.

“Poor book,” he mumbled as she sat next to him and held out her hand in demand. Reluctantly, he placed his hand into hers and let her examine his newest injury.

“It was atrocious anyway,” the witch smiled up at him and summoned dittany salve with a casual hand that reminded him of Astoria. Hermione's smile was a brief but bright distraction, a flicker of light in the darkness that surrounded him.

“It’ll sting,” she said as she started to apply the salve to his splinch, a jagged line down his wrist, not much deeper than a papercut. “Not that you haven’t had worse,” she continued and let her fingers trace the many scars on his forearm.

“It will heal,” Harry answered casually, catching her idle hands and holding them tight. “Hermione, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to place you and the girls in danger, but I need your help finding Lily, Albus, and Jamie.”

“Harry, for goodness’ sake, you mean the world to me, you are my family. Of course, I’ll help you. I’m only concerned you didn’t come to me immediately and went to Malfoy instead.”

Harry’s heart froze, guilt and suspicions swelling. “How did you know I went to Malfoy?”

Instead of looking caught, she rolled her eyes. “I am familiar with the obnoxious cologne the prat wore even back then—bergamot and incense. You smell of it. Besides,” she tugged on his sleeve, revealing a small embroidered "DML" on the hem that he hadn’t noticed before, “you’re wearing his clothes.”

Harry coughed and quickly rolled the sleeves up again. He would murder Pippy for dressing him in Malfoy’s clothing of all things. Okay, perhaps not kill her, but certainly give her a stern, calm, and very clear talking to.

“Right. Sorry, I didn’t really intend to…end up there. I just did.”

“Mhm, you’ve always had a deep connection with Malfoy.”

“I did not have a deep connection with Malfoy!” Harry tried to keep his voice down, but blushed furiously as Hermione giggled quietly and hushed him.

“I didn’t!” He repeated as Hermione rose from the sofa and placed the dittany salve onto the coffee table, next to a laptop and several volumes of books.

“Mhm, of course not.” The witch nodded and walked into the kitchen to place a kettle onto the stove. Before he knew it, the air smelled of fresh coffee and warm breakfast rolls and he took the first deep breath in days.

“Now tell me,” Hermione instructed him as she placed a blue speckled plate with rolls and jams before Harry, a cup of black coffee next to it. She motioned to the milk jug she was holding, and Harry nodded gratefully before she poured a generous amount into the dark brew. “Tell me what happened.”

The shift in Hermione was always fascinating, from one moment to another, the warm friend turned into a seasoned lawyer. Hermione settled beside him, one leg folded over the other, a notebook in her lap, and a mechanical pencil firmly in her hand. She looked at him expectantly, and Harry began to recount the events in as great of detail as he could recall.

Hermione listened intently, her pen scribbling furiously on the pages of her notebook as she took note of every detail Harry considered relevant. When she had filled three pages, front and back, Harry paused to catch his breath.

“Malfoy married Voldemort?!” was the first full sentence she uttered; her pen frozen in midair with disbelief. “How come I didn’t know that?”

“That’s what you’re fixating on? Not the fact that I still have a Horcrux inside me?” Harry asked incredulously, staring at her as if she had lost her mind, not that he had reacted any better to the news.

“I suspected you did,” Hermione said absently, her gaze distant as she brought the pen to her lips, chewing thoughtfully on the cap. “When Malfoy resurrected Voldemort, your scar lit up, and you were in so much pain. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget? It was pure agony.”

“Exactly, why would you be in pain if it was gone?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You had already decided to flee. I wasn’t going to stop you. I wanted you to have a moment of peace, to live quietly for once,” she explained calmly. “I wanted you and Ginny to be safe.”

Harry nodded, recalling the relief on Hermione’s face when he had told her that he and Ginny were giving up the fight.

She had taken only a moment to decide to support him, declaring she would come with them. Hermione had been the one to get Harry the job at the gymnasium when he had refused to join her at university all those years ago.

“If you want, we will find a way to return the Horcrux to Voldemort,” she said carefully and nodded toward his scar, “I will help you.”

“Of course, I want to,” Harry said quickly, shivering at the thought of any part of Voldemort’s within him. “As soon as possible.”

“Voldemort is likely right, the best chance would be during Winter Solstice, when the day is shortest and the night longest. But that gives us…” she stopped; her brows furrowed in concentration.

“Eight months,” he offered with a small smile on his face, before it was pulled apart by a wide yawn.

“I’m a lawyer, not a mathematician,” she told him snidely, but a soft smile played at the corners of her lips. “You need rest, Harry. I can tell you haven’t slept. Come on, let’s get you into the guest bedroom. Maybe you can get some sleep before the girls wake for school.” She sighed as though that was a minimal possibility and pulled him off the sofa.

Hermione dragged him down the hallway, past her own room and the girls’ closed bedroom door, stopping at the guest room Harry had briefly stayed in, back when Ginny and he had decided to end their marriage.

When Hermione opened the door, the room looked exactly as he remembered it. The white wooden bed frame was covered in plush yellow sheets, and the tiny desk stood cluttered in the corner. The rest of the space served as a makeshift storage room for random books of various sizes, scattered haphazardly across the floor and piled on shelves.

She gently guided him inside, a sense of nostalgia washing over Harry as he took in the familiar surroundings. Hermione’s touch was both comforting and grounding, a reminder that he was among friends who cared deeply for him.

“You can stay here for as long as you need,” Hermione said softly, her voice filled with understanding and compassion. “We’ll figure this out together, Harry.”

Harry smiled in gratitude and lifted “The Uniform Code of Commercial Real Estate” from the pillow and placed it gingerly onto the nightstand. Not bothering to take off his clothes, only removing his shoes, he slipped under the sheets and allowed Hermione to tuck him in.

“Get some rest, Harry,” she commanded and placed a gentle kiss onto his forehead before carding her fingers through his hair once or twice. The gentle touch lulled him to sleep, and he was beyond the veils of dreams by the time Hermione closed the door behind her.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Harry woke much later that day, the sunshine now replaced by the quiet drizzle of rain, skies gray and dreary. When he sat up, he still felt somewhat dizzy and sleepy, but hunger drove him out of the bed and into the living room, where he was immediately assaulted by two miniature humans, still in their school uniforms.

“UNCLE HARRY!” The piercing voices screeched repeatedly as two girls with bushy hair and bright golden-brown eyes jumped up at him. Smiling despite the piercing headache, he bent down to embrace the children.

“Mommy cried so much when you were gone,” Rose whispered into Harry’s ear as she wound her arms around his neck. A knot formed in his throat.

“I am sorry, Rosie,” he whispered back, placing a soft kiss on the girl’s cheek. Rose nodded at him with all the seriousness of a ten-year-old and took a step back, allowing her younger sister a turn.

Minnie had grown several inches since he had seen her last. Now a tall seven-year-old, she beamed at him and pulled on his sleeve for his attention.

“Where is Lily?” she asked excitedly, jumping up and down. Harry tried his best to keep his façade from crumbling, to hide his pain and sorrow.

“She is not with me at the moment, Minnie,” he told her with a forced calmness. “But she will be soon, and then you can see her, okay?”

“Aww,” Minnie pouted lightly but nodded, “okay. Come have tea with us! Mum is reading us Pippi Longstocking!”

The girls dragged him toward the sofa closest to the fireplace, an idle fire casting the room into a warm glow. Tea was already served on the now less cluttered coffee table. They pushed him down into the cushions, only to sit as close to him as possible. Rose linked their arms, and Minnie leaned her head against his shoulder.

Hermione looked up from the book, her eyes softening as she took in the sight of Harry with her daughters. She closed the book gently and set it aside, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Welcome back, Harry,” she said softly, her voice filled with genuine relief and affection. “I made some sandwiches. You must be starving.”

Harry’s stomach growled in response, and he hummed appreciatively. “You know me too well, ‘Mione.”

Taking a bite of the sandwich – cheese and pickle – Harry glanced at Hermione. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Hermione.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” she replied firmly. “We’re in this together, all of us.”

The sisters looked up at Harry with wide eyes. “Uncle Harry, you’re staying with us, right?” Minnie asked, her voice filled with hope.

“For now, yes,” Harry said, ruffling her curly hair. “I’ll be here as long as I can.”

Rose tightened her grip on his arm. “We missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sweet Pea,” he replied gently, earning himself a toothy grin from both girls. One of Minnie’s front teeth was missing, and Harry’s mood sobered at the thought of how many tooth fairies had failed to show up for Lily and Albus this year.

“Alright girls,” Hermione clapped her hands together and stood. “Why don’t you go next door and see if Mrs. Gilliam has made her famous sticky toffee pudding?" she suggested with a smile. The girls squealed with delight and jumped up.

She winked at Harry and gave each child a quick kiss on their foreheads, both rubbing away the smudge of lip balm left behind. “Save some for us!” she called after them with a gentle shake of her head, a smile gracing her pretty face.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Hermione turned to Harry, her expression shifting to one of concern. "Alright, Harry," she said, sitting back down opposite from him. "We have a bit of time. Let's brainstorm what we’ll do."

Harry sank back into the sofa, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Hermione, I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know who or what to trust anymore."

Hermione’s eyes were sharp and thoughtful. "First things first, we need to use every resource we have. I’ll tap into my legal connections to gather information discreetly. We need to understand what’s happening on the Muggle side, and I can get us access to restricted records and databases… with a little persuasion."

“Persuasion?” Harry tilted his head slightly, eyebrows raised in question as Hermione ducked her head.

“An Imperio or two might be necessary, Harry. Don’t you judge me for suggesting an Unforgivable. We are beyond that,” she argued, still fidgeting with a curl of her hair.

“However…” Hermione turned her head away as she mumbled something unintelligible. Harry strained to hear her, cocking his head to the side.

“Huh?” he asked, brows drawn together in confusion.

She huffed loudly and shook her head dramatically. “And maybe, perhaps, I have a contact we could ask to help us.” Hermione squirmed in her chair, grimacing at the coffee table before her as her cheeks darkened to a coral-red. “To sneak a look into some files or turn the other way for a moment.”

“Oh?” Realization dawning, Harry grinned at her embarrassment. “What’s her name?”

“Melody,” she nearly whispered, shuffling her feet a bit, but a smile was tugging at her lips. “Melody Lemone.”

“Melody,” his grin softened. “That’s a pretty name. She is lucky to know you, Mione.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she sighed. “However, it won’t last. Melody is only here for a year; she works for the American government and is stationed here until September.”

“Oh,” his own smile vanished. “I’m sorry, Mione.”

Hermione shook her head, brushing off his concern. “It’s alright, Harry. Let’s focus on what we need to do. Give me a moment.”

Quickly, she got up and grabbed her laptop, settling back into her chair while powering the machine on.

The screen flickered on much quicker and less audibly than the one Harry had kept at his apartment, and with practiced hands, Hermione unwrapped an ethernet cable and plugged it in.

“I’ll write an email to my other contact in the British government. I’d wager I’ll be able to get us a meeting with the Secretary of State for the Home Department by Tuesday. With the right words, that is.”

“What day is it today?” Harry worried his lips; he had wasted so much time already.

“It is Friday, April 29th,” Hermione replied carefully, knowing that Tuesday appeared a lifetime away for Harry. He sagged into his seat, afraid and angry at the thought of waiting another four days.

“Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get started on other fronts immediately. I’ll reach out to my contacts in the Ministry too, see if they can expedite anything on that end,” Hermione reassured him, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she typed the email.

It only took a few minutes for a quiet ping to ring from the laptop, and Hermione looked up from the email she was formatting for the second time.

“Oh,” she said and let out a relieved sigh. “Melody is in the office now; we are welcome to stop by, she said.”

“This quickly? Does she know why we are coming?”

“Not yet,” Hermione said, already getting up to tie her shoes and reaching for her purse. “Come on, let’s go.”

Before Harry could find his shoes in the guestroom, Hermione had already made her way to the neighbor’s apartment. She asked if it was alright for Rosie and Minnie to stay for an hour or two. Although Harry couldn't see the neighbor or hear the response, Hermione's reassuring smile told him that it wasn't a problem.

Just as Harry was about to step out the door with Hermione, an uncomfortable tug of magic pulled at his chest. A reminder that he had a bargain to uphold, and once again, Harry cursed himself for having sworn such a vague vow with someone like Malfoy.

He sighed heavily, annoyed at the timing, and raised his wand to send a Patronus.

The silvery stag emerged from Harry's wand, its shimmering form flickering uncertainly before solidifying into the majestic creature it was meant to be. The light it emitted cast an ethereal glow around the room, illuminating the space with a soft, silvery hue. Harry’s expression tightened with concentration as he focused on the message.

“Tell Malfoy I'm meeting with Hermione's friend Melody Lemone for information about the kids,” he whispered urgently to the Patronus. The stag’s ears flicked forward, listening attentively to Harry’s words. Then, with a graceful leap, it bounded off through the wall, its hooves making no sound as it disappeared from sight.

Harry turned to Hermione, who was watching with a raised eyebrow. “What was that about?” she asked.

“I swore an unbreakable vow to consult Malfoy whenever I’m working on rescuing the children,” Harry admitted, annoyance at himself clear in his tone. “I couldn't leave without letting him know.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, sounding both exasperated and sympathetic. She shook her head as though she were dealing with a wayward child who never learned.

The answer came in the form of a sleek silver serpent slithering into the room, and Malfoy's voice echoed from it with irritation. “Potter, really? Was leaving without as much as a warning really necessary? How very Gryffindor of you.”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling a familiar surge of frustration. “And here I thought you'd be thrilled to have me out of your hair for a bit.”

As if on cue, Malfoy's head appeared in the fireplace, both Harry and Hermione jumped at his sudden presence. Malfoy’s expression was a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Oh, Potter, the only thing that thrills me is the thought of you actually following through on our agreements. It's like babysitting a particularly troublesome dragon.”

“Malfoy, I’m not a child,” Harry shot back, crossing his arms. “I don’t need your permission to breathe.”

“Well, you certainly need my permission to do anything sensible,” Malfoy replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you’re not exactly the poster boy for clear-headed decisions.”

Harry felt his temper flare. “You mean like the clear-headed decision to marry Voldemort? How's that working out for you?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed dangerously, but a smirk played on his lips. “As thrilling as it is to know you’re jealous, Potter, let's stay focused. Don’t do anything stupid.” A hand appeared, and Malfoy signaled Hermione to move over before he stepped through the fire, appearing in Hermione’s living room.

“Oh please, you’d love the chance to play hero,” Harry retorted, ignoring the shock of seeing Malfoy so casually in Hermione’s space.

“Harry, Malfoy,” Hermione interrupted, her voice filled with exasperation. “Could we save the bickering for later? We have more important things to focus on.”

Malfoy’s smirk widened. “Listen to Granger, Potter. She’s the brains of your operation, after all. Just don’t get in her way.”

Harry huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of handling this. We don’t require your assistance.”

Malfoy dusted the ash off his suit jacket and looked at Harry with incredulity. “Do try not to embarrass yourself, Potter.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, the two of you are impossible. Can we go now?”

Harry nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Yeah, let’s go. But remind me to hex him later.”

Hermione laughed softly. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Within five minutes, the three of them were marching down the wet streets of London, hailing a cab toward Whitehall.

Chapter Text

The cab took nearly thirty minutes to weave through the heavy afternoon traffic. Rain splattered against the windows, drops racing one another across the glass. Hermione regretted having offered to sit in the middle, sandwiched between Harry and Malfoy.

Harry held her hand tightly, seeking every bit of comfort from her presence, while Malfoy made it painfully clear he didn't wish to touch Hermione, having scooted to the far right.

The tension was unbearable between the two men, and Hermione sighed heavily into the oppressive silence. Both Harry and Malfoy refused to look at one another, stubbornly staring out of their respective windows. Even the cab driver was throwing questioning glances into the back mirror, smiling uncertainly when Hermione only shrugged her shoulders in response.

Hermione hadn't been as surprised as she perhaps should have been that Malfoy had remembered her floo address. The man had visited her once after Harry's disappearance, after the disappearance of the entire Potter-Weasley family.

With pity in his eyes, he had made tea in her kettle, drank most of it himself, and engaged in an uncomfortable stare-off with Ron. Not that she had been much more comfortable in Ron’s presence herself at the time; the resentment still present, despite the decade and some years since their break.

Malfoy had placed an awkward hand on her shoulder, a pat that she could have done without, when he had left.

Now, she was the only thing between two warring forces, and she wasn’t sure if she served as the barrier to keep them from fighting… or from kissing. The static in the air was charged, leaving her skin prickling, the hair on her arms rising. Even this didn’t surprise her; Malfoy and Harry’s relationship had always been a tug of war between loathing and obsession.

“Are we almost there?” Harry muttered, breaking the silence with a tone that was more resigned than hopeful.

Hermione glanced at the cab driver’s GPS. “Just a few more minutes,” she replied, trying to sound encouraging. “We’re almost there.”

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, his leg brushing against Hermione’s for the briefest moment before he retreated to his corner. “Honestly, Potter, if you can’t handle a simple cab ride, how do you expect to handle anything else?”

Harry’s grip on Hermione’s hand tightened, and she could feel the anger radiating from him. “You know, Malfoy, I liked you better when you were trying to fool me. What happened to being kind and supportive? Gave up on trying to do better?”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked toward Harry for a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then he looked away, his jaw tightening. “I have my moments, Potter. But if you’re expecting me to play nice when you’re being insufferable, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Insufferable?” Harry shot back, his voice rising slightly. “You’re the one who—”

“Both of you, enough,” Hermione interjected sharply, her patience wearing thin. “We’re on the same side, remember? For now, at least.”

“I feel like I have every right to feeling betrayed and upset. But what gives you the right to throw a tantrum?” Harry ignored her, his fierce eyes now trained onto Malfoy’s profile, still pointedly turned away.

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted him, her tone a warning. A Muggle cab was certainly not the right venue for a discussion of their past. As the cab finally pulled up to the building in Whitehall, Hermione, as well as their driver, breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re here,” she announced, eager to escape the confined space and the tension that had threatened to suffocate them all.

The three of them exited the cab, stepping out into the drizzle. The cold air was a welcome change, clearing Hermione’s head as she led the way to Melody’s office. Harry and Malfoy followed, their silence a tenuous truce for the moment. But Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before their fiery dynamic reignited, and she could only hope it would be directed toward their common goal rather than against each other.

~~~~~*~~~~~

They hurried into the imposing building before them, their footsteps echoing in the marble-floored lobby. As they approached the reception desk, Hermione took the lead, her voice firm and polite. She had clearly been here before, smiling at the lady behind the desk.

"Good afternoon. We're here to see Melody Lemone," she said.

The receptionist, a young woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, looked them over before nodding. "She's expecting you. Take the lift to the fourth floor, and her office is at the end of the hall on the left."

They followed her directions, the elevator ride tense with anticipation and worry. When the doors opened, they found themselves in a quiet, well-lit corridor. Hermione led the way, knocking lightly on the door labeled "Melody Lemone, Senior Analyst."

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Hermione pushed the door open, revealing a spacious office filled with a selective collection of books, curious pieces of art, and a large, neatly organized desk. Behind it sat Melody, a woman in her late thirties with short, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She looked up from her work, a curious expression on her face.

"Hermione, it's good to see you," Melody said, standing up and offering an overly formal handshake. "And you must be?"

“Draco Malfoy. Pleasure,” Malfoy spoke first, confidently gripping the woman’s hand and stepping aside to allow Harry a chance to introduce himself.

“Harry Potter,” he said somewhat more nervously, anxious to know what Melody may have been told.

“Harry?” Melody glanced back to Hermione, clearly familiar with the name and a concerned frown darkened her face. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. What can I help you with?”

Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady. "We need access to some files, restricted ones most likely. It's about Harry's children. They've been taken, and we believe there's information here that could help us find them."

“Hermione, you know I can’t do this,” Melody narrowed her blue eyes at Harry, “that’s espionage. I can’t simply look at classified documents of a foreign government.”

“Melody, please. The lives of three innocent children are on the line,” Hermione pleaded, her face open and vulnerable. “You don’t even have to look for the information yourself, you could just… step out for a moment and leave your laptop open?”

Melody looked between the three of them; her expression torn. “Do you understand what you’re asking of me? If I get caught, it’s not just my job on the line. This could ruin my career, my life.”

Harry hesitantly stepped forward. “Miss Lemone, I know this is asking a lot. But these children, my children, they are in grave danger. We wouldn’t be here if we had any other options.”

Hermione's eyes softened as she reached out, gently placing her hand on Melody’s. “Melody, you’ve seen the good I can do – we can do. You know this isn’t just about politics or espionage. It’s about saving lives. Please, just this once, help us.”

Melody sighed deeply, her resolve wavering and Harry wondered what Hermione had shared with the woman. A concerned glance from Malfoy betrayed he was wondering the same.

Miss Lemone turned her gaze to the window, to the rain pattering against the glass, biting her lip as she weighed the risks. After a long moment, she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Alright. I’ll step out for a moment. But if anything goes wrong, you didn’t get this from me.”

Hermione's eyes lit up with gratitude. “Thank you, Melody. We promise, this stays between us. You’re doing the right thing.”

Melody nodded, standing up from her desk. “You have ten minutes. Make it count.” She glanced at Harry, then Hermione, ignoring Malfoy altogether, her expression serious. “Don’t make me regret this.”

As Melody left the room, Hermione quickly moved to the laptop Melody had left on her desk, her fingers flying over the keys. Harry stood watch at the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Come on, come on,” Hermione muttered, accessing files after restricted files. “We need something, anything…”

Malfoy looked at her curiously, “how do you know what to look for in there?”

“Keywords,” was all she said, not looking up at him.

Harry glanced back at her. “Find anything yet?”

“Almost there,” she replied, her eyes scanning the screen rapidly. “Got it! I think.” She quickly copied something onto a USB drive she had pulled from her purse, then closed the laptop just as Melody re-entered the room.

“I hope you found what you’re looking for,” Melody said, her voice laced with doubt. She looked directly at Harry, her eyes dark and unreadable.

Harry felt a pang of guilt but nodded. “We did, Miss Lemone. Thank you.”

Melody’s gaze shifted to Hermione, her expression hardening. “And Hermione.”

Already halfway out the door, Hermione turned back to her, one hand still on the handle. “Yes?”

Melody crossed her arms, her body language defensive. “I hope this is the last time I see you.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her face softening with regret and understanding. “Be well, Melody. And... thank you, truly.”

Melody didn’t respond, instead, she turned away, her back rigid, an unmistakable request for them to leave. It was a dismissal, clear and final. Harry’s heart ached for Hermione at the sight, but they respected Melody’s silent command.

As they exited the office, the door closing with a soft click behind them, Harry glanced at Hermione, noticing the sadness etched in her features. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes misty. “I’m fine, Harry. It’s just... it needed to be done.”

Even Malfoy remained quiet at that as they made their way back to the elevator. The rain was still falling when they reached the entrance hall and nodded their goodbyes to the receptionist.

Hermione’s mobile rang in her purse.

Surprised, she reached in and pulled it out, staring at the bluish tinted screen before she picked up with the press of a button.

“Granger,” she said curtly into the mobile now pressed to her ear between her head and shoulder. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Whatever reply came from the other end, it cheered her up. “Yes! This is Hermione Jean Granger; I did request that meeting. Five minutes? Certainly, we can be there!” She glanced at the watch at her wrist and motioned for Harry and Malfoy to follow her.

Harry’s heart beat out of his chest as they rushed down the wet streets, jumping over puddles and avoiding small gullies, not knowing where they were headed but hoping sincerely it would be worthwhile the burning pain in his thighs.

“Thank you very much!” Hermione smiled into the phone and hung up with another press of a button, her eyes excited as she looked over her shoulder at Harry.

“We didn’t have to wait until Tuesday after all!” she told him and picked up her pace. Malfoy cursed something about his shoes not being made for running but kept pace with Harry.

“No one asked you to come,” Harry warned him and earned himself a glare from Hermione, her curly wet hair whipping around her face.

“You have made so abundantly clear, however, I did swear to help you, so I believe I have little choice if I value my magic,” Malfoy hissed at Harry, his eyes trained forward as though he knew where Hermione was leading them.

“Please, you two! Later!” Hermione nearly whined and came to a standstill before a particularly official-looking governmental building of some sorts. It had a large staircase leading up to a columned entrance, large doors guarded by security personal with severe facial expressions.

Squaring her shoulders, and Malfoy following suit, Hermione ascended the stairs with a purpose. If he had not known better, the two of them looked as though they clearly belonged into this space, dressed in formal business attire and heads held high. While he remained a nervous outsider.

Trying to catch up, he stumbled up the stairs and managed to reach them just as they made it to the entrance, blocked by massive metal detectors.

Harry refrained from whispering to Hermione, wondering if these machines would be capable of detecting their wands, but as she strode up confidently, he bit his tongue.

“Barrister Granger, Malfoy, and Potter,” Hermione introduced them to the first guard who looked at her with a bored expression. “We have a meeting in,” she glanced at her watch again, “two minutes.”

“Please place your items into this box,” he drawled, his arm vaguely gesturing to little plastic trays on a conveyer belt. With a huff, Hermione took off her coat and her purse, dropping both into a tray. “Shoes too?” she asked, trying her best not to glance at her watch, again.

“No, shoes are not required,” the guard replied slowly, and ushered her through the detector. It remained silent and Hermione welcomed her purse and coat at the other end. Malfoy and Harry followed her example and within a minute, each was on the other side.

“Come, we must hurry! Thirty seconds to go,” she rushed them, and Harry grew more frustrated at the lack of physical strength he still possessed.

Huffing and puffing, they made it to the Secretary’s office with a heartbeat’s time to spare.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“We had requested a meeting with the Secretary of State for the Home Department,” Hermione stood tall, her arms crossed over her chest, and she somehow managed to look down her nose at the Deputy Secretary even with him being a head taller than her in heels.

“You and a thousand other people,” the man said, an insincere smile plastered on his face. “What may I help you with, Barrister Granger?”

“We are demanding to know the location of a set of siblings that are within government control. We are looking for 3 children: one girl, two boys.”

“I know nothing of such case. Besides, why are you not at the police with this request? I’m sure they could help you much better than I could,” the man stretched out a hand as though he would start ushering them through the door, when Hermione stepped forward, her wand pointed directly at his crooked nose.

“This pertains to wizarding children,” Hermione hissed, and Harry’s chest swelled with pride at the ferocious sight of her. “I’m certain you’ve heard something about them.”

There was a flicker of recognition on the dour man’s face, and Harry thought violence might be the answer to their question after all.

“Ah. My condolences, Barrister Granger. But that is not my area of expertise. Though I sincerely wish I could be of assistance,” the Deputy Secretary ground out, and Harry believed him as much as he would have any other slippery politician.

Harry raised his own wand when the door behind him sprang open with a bang.

“Good Heavens!” the man yelped, just as Harry turned and found himself staring at Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s wicked grin and glowering brown eyes were fixed on the Muggle. The shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed that he had hurried, perhaps even run.

“Granger,” Voldemort said, his tone dangerous as he addressed her directly. Harry instinctively shifted to shield the Muggle-born witch. “I hate to cut this clearly productive meeting short, but I must warn you. Your children may be in need of assistance.”

Harry's world tilted on its axis as his mind caught up with Voldemort’s meaning. His heart plummeted, and a cold dread settled in his stomach, twisting it into knots. The room seemed to close in on him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"No, no, no," Harry muttered, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He whipped around to lock eyes with Hermione. She was shaking, her face drained of all color and Harry sprang into action the moment he saw the resolve within her eyes.

Not letting her Apparate in this state, he jumped forward and grabbed her. Before ordering Malfoy to touch his wrist, Voldemort had already linked hands with his spouse.

Within seconds, they were squeezing through time and space, landing in front of Hermione’s door with an uncomfortable jolt. Hermione’s wail pierced through the air, a sound of pure anguish and fear.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Hermione’s apartment did not look much different from Harry’s own—furniture upturned, cupboards ripped open, books scattered and torn apart on the floor. It was a war zone, dust and dirt swirling through the air in heavy plumes. A broken cry filled the disaster, and Harry clung to Hermione, who was scratching and twisting, desperate to be let go.

“Rosie! Minnie!” Her cries vibrated through his core, and his ribs threatened to constrict around his lungs, squeezing him of any oxygen he might have had. Hermione thrashed in his arms, begging to be let go, her legs barely holding her up. Harry nearly missed the neighbor’s door opening by a slit.

“Ms. Granger,” a voice whispered, barely audible over Hermione’s agony. “Ms. Granger!” The voice of an older lady broke through a second time, and they turned toward the sound. Hermione blinked away the tears furiously, gasping for air.

When she had their attention, the old lady opened her door further, revealing Hermione’s frightened girls clinging to the woman’s skirts, white as ghosts and shaking like aspen leaves. Rosie broke away from the neighbor and rushed into Hermione’s arms, sobs shaking the little girl’s shoulders. Minnie followed on wobbly legs.

“Oh God, oh Merlin!” Hermione could barely speak, her voice broken and afraid. When Harry let go of her waist, she sank to the floor, ignoring splinters digging into her bare knees, and wrapped her arms around her daughters.

“Come in, come in,” the woman waved her hands furiously and stepped aside for the group of them to enter. Harry ushered Hermione and the girls through the door, then shot a warning glare at Malfoy and Voldemort. Malfoy nodded solemnly, and Voldemort rolled his eyes but nodded in acquiescence when Malfoy dug an elbow into his side.

“How did you…?” Hermione asked, her tone reverent, tears still streaking her bloodless cheeks.

“Oh darling, I saw those men waiting for your girls. I couldn’t let them walk into that, so I kept them hidden while the brutes in black destroyed your home. Ms. Granger, I know what they were after,” the grandmotherly woman shook her head ferociously, her white curls bouncing. “Not on my watch.”

“How do you know what they were after?” Voldemort asked, suspicion clear on his face, a threatening tone weaving through his words. Harry shifted, positioning himself between the monster and the Muggle.

The old woman met Voldemort's gaze with surprising steadiness, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh, Mister Wizard,” the old lady smiled sadly, and each of them froze at her address. “I pay attention, of course. And my sister was a witch. They took her over a year ago. Men like that took her from me.”

She turned and waddled slowly into the living room, beckoning them to follow over her shoulder.

“She was always the jokester in the room, always playing tricks. Uriela didn’t take the threat seriously when wizards started to disappear. I guess their King didn’t even bother to look for her.” The lady spat viciously, and Harry glared at Voldemort, expecting anger.

To his shock, the Dark Lord bowed his head gently and said sincerely, “I apologize on his behalf, a cruel oversight that is inexcusable.”

Hermione’s breath caught; her eyes wide with surprise as they remained fixed on Voldemort. Harry felt his own expression mirror hers, the shock and disbelief plain on his face. Never had he seen such an easy apology come from the Dark Lord’s lips, and witnessing this rare moment felt like a bizarre fever dream. He had expected the Killing Curse, or at least a Crucio, but instead, the neighbor gazed thoughtfully at the monster in disguise and finally nodded her head in thanks.

The normalcy of the gesture clashed violently with Harry's ingrained image of Voldemort, leaving him reeling. He tightened his grip on his wand, his mind racing to make sense of this unprecedented display of civility.

The old woman’s eyes softened slightly, though the pain remained etched into her features. She sighed and motioned them to sit on the worn-out sofas in the modest living room. The room was cozy, with a threadbare rug covering the floor and shelves lined with knick-knacks and old photographs. “They were looking for something specific. They tore through your things with a desperation I’ve only seen in people who are after something very important.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, her grip on her daughters tightening. “What did they say?” she asked urgently. “Did you hear them talk about something in particular?”

The old woman shook her head in regret. “Not that I could hear, I stayed hidden behind my door.”

Hermione’s shoulders dropped; her face drawn in contemplation. She looked so exhausted that Harry feared she would collapse any moment. He looked at Voldemort pleadingly, despite the revulsion it caused in his heart to ask his parents’ murderer for yet another favor.

“I believe it is time to return home,” Voldemort considered in response to Harry’s silent question. His tone was smooth, yet commanding, as his dark eyes fastened onto Hermione. “This place is no longer safe. I must insist you return with us,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “Of course, you will be safe with us as Harry’s friends.”

Harry bristled at the casual mention of his given name coming from Voldemort’s mouth, but before he could pick a fight over it, Malfoy stepped forward, his expression earnest as he extended his hand to Hermione.

“Come on, Granger. We’ll sort this out together,” Malfoy said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, then at Harry, who nodded reluctantly. With Hermione’s apartment a wasteland itself, there was no other place he could imagine that would provide as much safety to Hermione and the girls as the Manor. Though it pained him to admit, he had to agree that there was no other choice.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione placed her hand in Malfoy’s. "Alright," she said softly. "Let’s go."

The old woman watched them with a mix of concern and curiosity as they gathered themselves. “Take care, Ms. Granger,” she said kindly. “And keep those little ones safe.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gilliam,” Hermione replied, her voice trembling slightly. “Thank you for everything.”

With that, they moved as a group, Voldemort leading the way out of the apartment. The air outside had cooled significantly, and Harry couldn’t help but shiver as they stepped into the evening light. They gathered in a tight circle, the dusk and shrubs of the front yard hiding them from any stray onlookers.

“We’ll apparate back to the Manor,” Voldemort instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Everyone, hold on tight.”

“NO!” Minnie cried, her small frame trembling but her voice unwavering. She stared up at Voldemort with fierce determination, unafraid of his imposing presence. “We can’t leave Quill!”

Voldemort tilted his head, irritation flickering in his eyes as he regarded the little girl. “Why, Miss, do we need to bring a quill?” he asked, clearly choosing his words with strained patience.

“Accio Quill!” Minnie nearly yelled, her voice echoing through the street. She stretched her arms out toward the building they had just left, completely unconcerned about who might overhear them.

Harry could hear the distant screeching of an angry animal, followed by the sound of objects clattering to the floor and windows being thrown open. In a blink, a tabby cat came flying through the air, its fur standing on end and its tail rigid with indignation.

The cat landed with a soft thud at Minnie's feet, fur still puffed up and eyes wide with alarm. Quill meowed loudly, clearly displeased with his unexpected journey.

Voldemort’s eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back, trying to avoid the flailing cat. “What is this creature?” he demanded, looking both baffled and slightly annoyed.

“This is Quill, our cat!” Minnie announced proudly, scooping up the disgruntled feline and holding him tightly. “We can’t leave without him.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You heard her, we can’t leave Quill,” he echoed, a grin spreading across his face.

Voldemort sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. “Very well,” he muttered, clearly exasperated. “We shall bring the... Quill.”

With Quill safely in Minnie’s arms, they formed a tight circle once more. Hermione held onto her daughters, Harry kept a protective arm around them, and Malfoy placed a reassuring hand on Voldemort’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Voldemort said, and with a sharp crack, they vanished from the quiet street, reappearing in the grandeur of Malfoy Manor.

Hermione immediately checked on her daughters, ensuring they were unharmed by the journey. Rosie and Minnie looked around with wide eyes, taking in the opulent surroundings. Quill hung loosely in Minnie’s arms, hind paws dragging across the floor as Minnie took a tentative step forward.

“Welcome back,” Voldemort said smoothly, his gaze sweeping over the group. “You’ll find everything you need here. Rest assured; you are safe.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, acknowledging the necessity of their situation. Despite the unease that gnawed at him, he couldn’t deny that the Manor was their best chance at protection.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“The laptop won’t work here,” Granger said the next morning, her brows furrowed in frustration. “The Manor’s magic is too dense for the processor. Besides, I don’t have any internet connection here, or electricity to charge the device.”

Draco nodded as though he had an inkling of what she was talking about and brought a hand to his chin. Scratching at his stubble, he pretended to think of a solution on how to get elicitricity to the Manor.

“There is a café around the corner of St. Mungo’s,” Astoria chimed in, her eyes focused on Granger in a curious way. “It has the weefee, I’ve heard Muggles ask for the password for it before. Maybe we could go there?”

Granger looked up in surprise, eyes fastening on Astoria’s and she considered her words for a moment. “I could show you,” Astoria shrugged, blushing lightly under Granger’s scrutiny.

“Do you go there often?” Granger asked Astoria, tilting her head lightly.

“Once or twice a week, perhaps? I find Muggles to be…fascinating,” Astoria dipped her head, “from a distance.”

The Muggleborn stayed quiet, as though surprised by the information, but then slowly nodded her head. “Yes, that could work. If they have Wi-Fi, I can access the files we need.”

“Alright then,” Harry said, determination settling in his features. “Let’s go.”

When they arrived at the café, Granger chose a table toward the back, furthest away from the counter and sat up her laptop, powering on the Muggle machine with the press of a button.

Astoria placed a mug in front of Granger and another in front of herself. Granger looked up in thanks and grabbed the mug by the handle, blowing carefully over the steam as she continued typing on the keyboard. The smell of hazelnut and cream drifted over to Draco.

“What about me? Do I not get a coffee as well?” he asked, not seriously put out but amused.

“Are you doing important work?” Astoria grinned at him. “No? Then I’m not paying for your coffee.”

“Fine, then I’ll get myself one. Potter, want one?” Draco looked at Potter expectantly, who returned the question with a confused look of his own.

“Erm, sure?” Potter responded, and Draco could have sworn he saw Granger roll her eyes at the screen. Draco waited for Potter to continue, but the man only sat there, cheeks reddening.

“Well, what would you like?” Draco prompted him, only to see the man fluster more by the simple question.

“Caramel brulee latte?”

“Are you sure?” Draco asked, daring to tease a little, hoping Potter had forgiven him just a tiny bit for their…disagreement the morning before.

Potter rolled his eyes; a huff escaped his lips in annoyance. However, he didn’t look mad, and Draco considered that a win. “Yes, with whole milk.”

“Very well,” Draco nodded graciously and was glad he had the foresight to put some Muggle money into his pocket before they had left. Purposefully, he walked to the counter and hoped that he looked like he knew what he was doing.

The barista looked at him kindly, her eyes expectant when he leaned against the counter, trying for an air of casual familiarity.

“I would like a caramel brulee latte with whole milk, and… a cappuccino.”

“A tall, grande, or venti for that?” she asked unexpectedly, and Draco was thrown off his game.

“A…what?” he had been caught, he thought. His palms grew sweaty, and his pulse raced.

“A small, medium, or large?” The barista smiled kindly, not at all as if she suspected him of being a wizard.

“Oh, yes, thank you. Medium for the latte and small for the cappuccino, please,” Draco replied, still somewhat flustered and he could have sworn he heard Potter laugh at him.

“That makes £6.65,” the girl said quickly, and Draco counted out the money, trying his hardest to keep his hands from shaking.

“Here you go, enjoy your day!” With two mugs in his hands, Draco made his way back to the table where the others were sitting and sighed a breath of relief.

“Here,” Draco said quickly, somewhat proud of his accomplishment. Astoria winked at him as she looked up, watching him place the latte in front of Potter, who was grinning at him.

“Well done, Malfoy,” Potter snickered, and Draco desired nothing more than to stick out his tongue at the man. “You’re welcome, Potter.”

Changing the topic and avoiding Astoria’s smile, he sat opposite Potter and looked at Granger. “Have you had any luck?”

Without looking up from her screen, Granger hummed noncommittally and kept typing. A small wrinkle appeared between her dark brows, and her coffee sat on the table, forgotten.

They sat in silence. The tension grew as Granger typed rapidly, her eyes scanning the screen, her fingers chasing invisible spots on the touchpad.

“Yes,” she finally said, not with triumph, but with a heavy weight on her shoulders. Potter scooted closer to her chair, looking over her shoulder, and Astoria stood from her own spot, standing on Granger’s other side.

“Muggles are tactless sometimes,” Astoria mumbled, her eyes dark and cold as she read through the information Granger had pulled up. Draco finally stood to see what they were reading as well.

The screen had writing on it, the headline of the particular document was titled the “Salem Project,” and it quickly became obvious that it pertained to witches and wizards.

“Is it safe to read it here?” Astoria whispered, looking over her shoulder carefully, eyeing the other customers in the café.

“I don’t know where else we could,” Granger answered, no malice or sense of superiority in her reply. “Shield me.”

Draco and Potter exchanged a glance before standing in a way that blocked the view from other patrons, creating a makeshift barrier with their bodies. Granger continued reading, her eyes scanning the document with increasing intensity.

“It’s a list of suspected wizards and witches. I don’t recognize most of them, but there,” with a shaky finger she was pointing at a place toward the bottom of the screen. In blocky letters, amongst hundreds of names, Draco could read four that were familiar.

Albus Severus Potter-Weasley (detained*)
James Sirius Potter-Weasley (detained)
Harry James Potter (unknown)
Lily Luna Potter-Weasley (detained)

Draco heard Potter’s breath hitch, his shoulders shook, and the man’s hands gripped the back of Granger’s seat, knuckles white. Without much of a thought, Draco placed a hand between Potter’s shoulders, steadying him somewhat. Astoria placed a soothing hand over Potter’s, rubbing slow circles over the man’s thumb and Potter let it happen.

“What does the asterisk mean over Albus’s name?” Potter whispered, face pale.

Granger turned toward Potter, her face pained and worried. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Harry…” she started but swallowed tightly instead of continuing what she was going to say.

“No,” Potter shook his head vigorously, “No, no.” he stepped backward, into Draco’s arms and he kept the man’s frame upright as Potter continued to shake his head.

“Shh Potter,” Draco whispered into his ear, nervous about the eyes that had turned toward them. “You don’t know it means that, it could mean anything.”

Astoria moved to shield Potter’s face from onlookers, Granger folded the screen down to hide what she was looking at. “Harry,” Astoria mumbled into his ear, “Harry, if it meant that Albus is… deceased,” she could barely say the word, “then why isn’t your wife’s name on the list? Wouldn’t they have listed Ginny Weasley’s name as well?”

Astoria’s tone was soft, a whisper that was meant to soothe and Potter’s shoulders stopped shaking as much, still unaware of the attention they were drawing. Granger stood, her laptop in her arms as she also stood closer, the four of them an awkward and very obvious huddle.

Her hands came to Potter’s shoulders. “Harry,” she whispered in the same tone as Astoria’s. “Albus is a Squib, no? Maybe the asterisk means he has no magic, there are several names with the symbol. It doesn’t mean he is dead.”

“We need to go,” Draco hissed, seeing the kind barista from earlier approaching them, her eyes now concerned and unhappy.

Just as Astoria and Granger turned Potter around, the barista had reached them. “Everything alright?” She asked Potter directly.

“His Grandmama just died,” Astoria said quickly to the girl, her face drawn in sympathy. Granger jumped in without hesitation. “She raised him, you know, and they told him in an email.” Astoria nodded, “Despicable such a thing.”

The barista’s expression morphed into one of pity and she extended a useless hand, “Oh no, I am so very sorry for your loss, Sir.”

Potter only nodded silently, not looking at the girl, staring at the floor instead.

“We are just leaving; he will need to grieve. Thank you for your concern, Miss.” Draco said, careful to sound kind and together they escorted Potter out of the café onto the streets.

Guiding, dragging Potter to a side alley, they prepared to Apparate back to the Manor. Astoria took Granger by the arm, while Draco kept a secure hand between Potter’s shoulders, grasping the man’s sweater lightly. Astoria and Granger disappeared in a quick whirl, and Draco followed suit.

Magic was just about to twist them away as well, when footsteps rushed across the cobblestone. “Potter! That’s Harry Potter!”

Draco didn’t get a glimpse of the stranger’s face when Magic pulled them away.

Chapter Text

"Fuck. Fuck!" Malfoy was swearing when he and Harry landed in the Grand Foyer of Malfoy Manor. Fear flooding through her, Hermione slipped from Astoria’s grasp and rushed over, checking both of them for signs of splinching.

“What happened?” she cried, her hands finding Harry’s. He was still shaking, eyes haunted, but he did not seem hurt. Not more than usual, that was.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked again when she didn’t receive an answer, anxiety coursing through her. “What happened?”

“Someone recognized Potter,” Malfoy ground through his teeth and let go of Harry, making sure her friend was steady before doing so. “This is going to be in the evening news. Fuck!” he repeated.

“And that is a bad thing, because?” Astoria asked, having neared the three of them, the corners of her lips turned down.

“Well, Astoria,” Malfoy said, without the malice that Hermione would have expected to hear, “whoever recognized Potter saw me drag and then Apparate a clearly distressed Harry Potter to God knows where. They will have accused me, and in association, Tom, of abducting Potter by the end of the hour.”

“Oh,” Hermione mumbled, she knew too well that Harry wouldn’t like that news to spread, not yet. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” Voldemort said, shocking Hermione and Harry with his sudden presence. She whirled around, looking for the person Harry had narrowed his eyes on, and fixed Voldemort with a glare herself.

The man, looking only a few years older than herself, walked calmly toward them, the heel of his shiny shoes echoing on the marble floor with each unhurried step. “At least not now,” he continued, something that Hermione would have described as concern flitting over the creature’s deceptive face.

“Are you well, Harry?” Voldemort asked, instead of elaborating on what he had meant, and stopped so closely to Hermione that the scent of him—tea and ink—whirled around her. She shuddered uncomfortably, but refused vehemently to back down, to step away.

Harry didn’t respond, his haunted eyes having turned to a blazing fire of anger, gaze fixed onto Voldemort’s dark red eyes. Malfoy took a step closer to Voldemort, a warning in his own eyes, but Voldemort ignored it.

With a sure hand, Voldemort reached out and cradled Harry’s face, towering over him. Hermione tensed, unsure if she needed to step in. She let her wand slip into her palm, staring at Harry’s face to wait for the sign.

But Harry smacked the hand away, the fear over Albus not forgotten, but mingling with the anger over Voldemort’s touch. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he hissed, and Hermione was proud of the intensity behind it. Harry had never cowered directly before Voldemort, and he wouldn’t now.

“My apologies, my Soul,” Voldemort replied smoothly, a corner of his mouth curled upward into a pleased smile, and Hermione’s breath caught. She had expected displeasure, fury even, but the Dark Lord was unconcerned. He perhaps looked even... smitten with Harry, and Hermione’s heart dropped into her stomach in frozen panic. The possessiveness in his eyes, the way he addressed Harry sent shivers down her spine.

“Tom,” Malfoy’s voice cut through the tension, his tone both respectful and urgent. “We need to address this. The recognition, the potential fallout—”

Voldemort waved a dismissive hand, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “It will be handled. We have more pressing matters at hand.”

Harry’s eyes blazed with defiance, but there was an underlying flicker of confusion, perhaps even fear. Hermione stepped closer, her presence a silent reassurance she hoped.

“What have you found?” The Dark Lord asked instead of indulging Malfoy, who clearly was annoyed and clearly even hurt at the dismissal.

“They call it the Salem Project,” Harry started, his shoulders squared and no longer shaking. “They definitely have my children. Where, we still don’t know.”

“I may be able to help with that,” Voldemort replied, a soft smile gracing his lips. Hermione froze at the vagueness of the monster’s response. Wondering what sort of price he would ask for the information, her grip on her wand tightened.

However, the Dark Lord only turned to Malfoy, who was still standing close to Harry. “Miss Howard has requested an audience with us,” Voldemort said easily. “Are you two feeling well enough to attend a meeting now? Or should I postpone?”

The Voldemort of fifteen years ago would have never considered asking such a question and the difference was jarring. Hermione couldn’t decide if she should grab Harry and run, or if she should step beside the Dark Lord and support his concerns.

“I’m fine, we’re fine, right Malfoy? Let’s go. Now,” Harry responded, clipped and eyes narrowed onto Voldemort who was grinning with delight at the response.

“Hermione?” Harry asked as he turned toward her, questions flooding his eyes. “Will you come?”

She wanted to, she really wanted to, but it had been hours since she had seen Rosie and Minnie and her heart yearned to check on them, to hug and kiss them in the face of Harry’s loss. Hesitating, she tried to find the right words, but Harry smiled, already knowing and understanding.

“Don’t worry, I got this. Go check on Rose and Minnie,” he soothed her with a gentle tone. “Say hi to those two for me.”

Nodding with a sigh of relief, Hermione stepped forward, past Voldemort and pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead.

“Alright, debrief me after,” she implored him and eyed him sternly. “I love you, Harry.”

“Love you too, Mione,” Harry was still smiling but shushed her away with two tired hands.

“Come,” Astoria chirped, speaking up for the first time in a while and Hermione had almost forgotten she was present. “I’ll take you to them. Pippy is still watching over them.”

Astoria’s smile was kind and light, reaching her hazel eyes and crinkling the skin around her lashes. Unable to help herself, Hermione smiled back and followed the witch through the archway and down the corridors. Leaving Harry behind with Malfoy, whom she had come to somewhat trust, and Voldemort, whose presence now unsettled her in a more profound, yet vastly different way.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“We invited Headauror Weasley to join us as he might have some insights to share.”

Ron wasn’t paying attention to what Consort Malfoy was saying, nor was he proud of his title coming from the ferret’s mouth, for the first time ever.

No, his glaring stare was focused entirely on the man beside Malfoy. The man, Ron could have sworn, was Harry Potter, if that wouldn’t implicate the worst possible forms of betrayal.

The man was thin and carried himself as though a year of sleeplessness had dragged his shoulders down permanently. Ron watched as those green eyes, underlined by sunken skin and dark circles, flickered back and forth between himself and Claire, always lingering a few seconds too long on Ron as though he was afraid.

As he should be.

Ron was barely able to stay in his seat. His fists were shaking and if his Highness and Malfoy weren’t in the room, he would be out of his seat and across the table in an instance. With his hands wrapped around the traitor’s throat, he would watch the last of the dull light in Harry’s eyes fade away.

Claire placed a calming hand onto his restless knee and squeezed, knowing well that he was about to do something incredibly rash and stupid.

But all he could think about was how Ginny’s hand had drifted to Mortal Peril on the clock and had stayed there ever since.

As had the clock hands for his niece and nephews on the clock that his mother had crafted for her grandchildren. The tears Molly had shed over the scene at Harry’s house, the blood that had been seeping into the floor, still haunted his nightmares daily.

“Ron…” Harry’s tentative voice broke Ron out of his spiral of thoughts. The air around him seemed to take on a hue of red, the edges of his vision growing blurry. Unexpectedly, Ron was standing, his wand trained firmly onto Harry’s head.

Harry hadn’t bothered to draw his wand but was staring up at Ron with pain and understanding in his eyes. It only made it worse.

“Did you kill her?” Ron hissed through the fire in his throat, eyes glancing from Harry to Voldemort, who was sitting only two chairs down from his former best friend. “Did you kill Ginny?!”

“No! No, Ron, I swear it,” Harry was begging, his hands clasped tightly, pain evident in every corner of his face. But Ron didn’t care, if Harry didn’t do this himself, then he was at least complicit in the betrayal. There was no other way for the Muggles to have found Ginny.

“Headauror Weasley,” Voldemort’s voice was icy and dangerous, a shiver went down Ron’s back, temporarily cooling the fire coursing within him. “I implore you, kindly, to lower your wand and sit.”

There was no kindness in the creature’s bloodred eyes, there was a threat of a swift death if he didn’t settle, and Ron had no desire to forfeit his life just yet. With stiff limbs, Ron sat back in his chair, breathing heavy and barely registering Claire taking his hand, her thumb rubbing circled over his knuckles.

“I will only say this once as I don’t make a habit of repeating myself,” Voldemort’s threatening tone continued and Ron watched with trepidation as the muscles in the King’s pale jaw jumped, the scales stark and white shimmering against the light. “If you raise your wand at Harry one more time, now or in the future,” the ugly monster cocked his head, the forked tongue tasting the air, tasting Ron’s rising fear and anger, “I will be sure to end your life. And it will not be swiftly.”

It was a promise.

A promise that was as personal as the revolting caress of Voldemort’s voice as he had said Harry’s name, and Ron’s stomach rolled.

“Voldemort,” Harry mumbled in warning, his eyes still trained on Ron, and the nausea threatened to rise to his throat. The familiarity with which Harry spoke to the monster was nothing short of abhorrent, and Ron couldn’t help but stare.

It was as if the ground had shifted beneath Ron's feet. The Harry he had known, the Harry who had fought valiantly against this very man, was now speaking to him with an unsettling ease. It was a sight that sent a cold shiver down Ron's spine, twisting his gut in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

The Harry Ron remembered had been defiant, strong, and unwavering in his hatred for Voldemort. This Harry, sitting so close to the Dark Lord, seemed a shadow of his former self. The dark circles under his eyes, the gauntness of his face, and the haunted look in his eyes painted a picture of a man who had been through hell and back. But it was the way he spoke Voldemort’s name, almost as if it was second nature, that tore at Ron’s heart.

How could Harry, of all people, speak to Voldemort like that? The man who had taken so much from them, who had caused immeasurable pain and suffering, was now someone Harry appeared to converse with regularly. It was a betrayal that cut deeper than any wound, a twisting knife in the remnants of Ron’s trust.

“Harry,” Ron’s voice was a low growl, barely containing the anger that simmered beneath the surface. “How can you sit there and talk to him like that? After everything he’s done?”

Harry’s eyes flickered with a mix of pain and resignation. “Ron, it’s complicated. We’re trying to find the children, and I need every bit of help I can get.”

“But him?” Ron spat, his voice rising. “Of all people, Harry, you choose to work with him?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, watching the exchange with an eerie calm. The room felt like it was closing in on Ron, the weight of the betrayal pressing down on him. He couldn’t fathom what had happened to make Harry align himself with their greatest enemy.

“It’s not about choice, Ron,” Harry said, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s about necessity. I don’t like it any more than you do, but we need to do whatever it takes to get them back.”

Ron’s fists clenched at his sides, the urge to lash out almost overwhelming. “You’ve changed, Harry. And not for the better.”

Harry flinched as if struck, and Ron could see the hurt in his eyes. But it wasn’t enough to quell the anger and betrayal burning within him. The Harry he had known was gone, replaced by someone he barely recognized. And sitting so close to Voldemort, it felt like he had lost his best friend to the darkness.

Claire stepped in, her voice soft but firm. “Ron, Sweetheart, focus. We can deal with everything else later.”

Harry’s eyes finally shifted from his own, surprise flickering at Claire’s use of a pet name. Ron puffed up his chest, drawing himself up and sitting next to Claire with purpose, winding one arm around the thin frame of his fiancée.

Because yes, he had moved on too. When Harry, Ginny, and Hermione – only thinking her name brought bitterness to his tongue – had left, he had stayed behind, unwilling to give up the fight, to let Voldemort take the world he had grown up in from him, to let Fred’s death be in vain.

Admittedly, he had changed tactics. Ron had trained tirelessly, studied as hard as Hermione had and fought his way to the top, to the position of Headauror. An effort to keep the King’s malice in check, to provide some sense, some remnants of law and order to the Wizarding World. Even if that meant the two royal husbands felt like they could barge into his office any time of the day as if it were their own.

And so here he sat, engaged to the most infamous of spies of the Wizarding World, who gave him a tight-lipped smile at his display of possessiveness.

“My Lord,” she said respectfully, almost reverently, as she addressed Voldemort. “As you requested, we were able to detain the four assailants your husband had made us aware of.”

She turned to Malfoy with a courteous nod of her head, a gesture that twisted Ron’s stomach. The prat didn’t respond, his head held high and proud, waiting coldly for the rest of her report. Ron hated him for it.

“We interrogated each and every one of them,” she continued. “Unfortunately, two…expired in the process.” Claire chose her words carefully, her tone monotonous, something that still fascinated Ron after so many years together.

She paused, her eyes shifting to Harry and then back to Voldemort, one corner of her lips lifting into the faintest of smiles. “One sang. We have a location.”

The air was sucked out of the room, and Ron’s head whipped toward her.

She hadn’t told him that.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Harry's breath hitched at Claire's words; his pulse quickened as hope thrummed through his veins. The world around him was spinning, the chair tilting, and he could have sworn Malfoy was the one holding him upright. Relief blossomed in his heart, a tiny crack in the frozen fear that had plagued him for over a year.

"Where?" he demanded, his voice shattering the silence that had descended upon the room. His tone was urgent, desperate. He needed to know, needed to act. Every second counted.

Claire turned to him, he couldn’t tell if her expression softened slightly. “We were made aware of a fourth detention center in York, surprisingly. We have sent a scout and confirmed suspicious activities around the described location.”

Moving out of Ron’s stiff embrace, Claire pulled a piece of parchment from a pocket in her skirt and slid it toward Voldemort.

Voldemort barely glanced at it before pushing it across the table into Harry’s hands. A brief touch to the cold skin of his claws sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, but he grasped the piece of parchment eagerly.

“These are the apparition coordinates, my Lord,” Claire said calmly.

Harry's eyes scanned the parchment, absorbing the information. The coordinates seemed to dance out of order as his vision swam with a mixture of relief and anxiety. His children were so close, yet still out of reach.

Voldemort's voice broke through Harry's thoughts, smooth and commanding. "We need to act swiftly and decisively. Any hesitation could cost us dearly."

Harry nodded, his grip on the parchment tightening. "What's the plan?" he asked, forcing himself to stay calm, to think clearly. He needed to be strong, to be the hero his children required of him to be.

Ron took a deep breath, his gaze steady as he spoke up for the first time in a while. "We will need a diversion to draw the guards away from the main entrance. Once inside, we must move quickly and quietly to avoid detection.”

Claire agreed with a curt nod. “The children are likely being held in a secure area at the center of the facility."

With one hand still secure on Harry’s chair, Malfoy leaned in, his expression serious. "I can create the diversion. My presence alone should be enough to draw their attention."

Harry glanced at him, surprised by the offer. "Are you sure?"

Malfoy nodded, a pained look in his eyes. "I'm sure. We need to do whatever it takes to get your children back."

Voldemort's eyes flickered with approval as he looked at Malfoy. "Very well. Headauror Weasley, you will lead the infiltration team. Harry, you will stay close to him and follow his lead."

Before Harry could bristle at the order and argue with Voldemort, Malfoy cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "We should also get Granger involved. Her strategic mind and magical prowess could be invaluable. Besides, she's close to the children. Her presence might comfort them."

Harry felt a wave of relief at the suggestion. Hermione had always been his rock, and her inclusion would undoubtedly strengthen their chances. "Yes, absolutely. We need Hermione."

Voldemort's gaze darkened slightly, but he nodded in agreement. "Very well. Summon her. We leave as soon as she's ready."

~~~~~*~~~~~

Voldemort stood to the side, his usual commanding presence subdued, watching as the group prepared for the mission. The room buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety as Harry and Draco took the lead, their focus razor-sharp. Harry's pacing had ceased, replaced by a steely resolve that made Voldemort's chest tighten with something he would have to admit felt like admiration.

Harry was a force of nature, his love for his children driving him with a fervor that Voldemort found both alien and fascinating. The way Harry moved, the way he spoke to each member of the team, offering words of encouragement and meticulously planning every detail, was captivating. His green eyes, once full of fear and uncertainty, now burned with an unwavering intensity. This was a man who would stop at nothing to save his children, and Voldemort couldn't help but marvel at the resolve.

“Ready?” Harry's voice was steady, filled with a quiet authority that commanded attention.

Draco nodded, his expression equally determined. "We're all set. Just waiting for your signal."

Voldemort’s gaze followed Harry as he moved through the room, checking in with Granger, Headauror Weasley, and the Aurors. His presence was a beacon of hope and strength for them. Voldemort felt a strange pang in his chest, an unfamiliar respect blossoming for the man who had once been his greatest adversary.

The prophecy had always been clear: neither could live while the other survived. Voldemort had interpreted it as a call to eliminate Harry, to erase the threat he posed. But now, watching Harry, he began to understand its true meaning.

Lord Voldemort, the soulless monster he had crafted from his own ambition and fear, could not survive in the face of Harry’s living, breathing love. This man, driven by an unyielding devotion to those he cared about, was not just a threat to Voldemort's physical existence, but to the very essence of what he had once become. Harry's love was a force that could not be conquered by fear or hatred; it was a power that could transform even the darkest of hearts.

“Stay focused,” Draco murmured, pulling Voldemort from his thoughts. His consort’s hand brushed against his, a silent reminder of their bond and the strength they drew from each other.

“I am,” Voldemort replied softly, his eyes never leaving Harry. “More than ever.”

As the group gathered, ready to apparate to the Muggle facility, Voldemort felt a profound sense of anticipation, something akin to giddiness trickled through him.

“He can be a force,” Voldemort mumbled, words only meant for Draco, and he could feel his husband nod slowly.

“He always has been,” Draco replied just as quietly, admiration clear in his hushed tone. “For his family, this man would do anything.”

“Imagine such a power amongst us,” Voldemort sighed as he watched Harry nod at something his Muggle-born witch was explaining in painful detail.

Draco squeezed his hand gently before letting go, moving to help with some last-minute preparations.

"Lord Voldemort," Miss Howard said quietly, her voice steady but laced with a subtle weariness that drew Voldemort’s gaze from his spouse squeezing Harry’s shoulder reassuringly. To his surprise, the latter didn’t shake off the hand. "I must request to stay behind for this mission."

"And why is that, Miss Howard? Your expertise could be invaluable in navigating the Muggle facility."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but her resolve was clear. "My presence could jeopardize my cover, my Lord. If the Muggles recognize me, it could ruin years of work and our ability to gather intelligence in the future."

Voldemort considered her words, noting the slight tremor in her demeanor and the way her gaze briefly flickered from the floor to the group gathered nearby. "Very well, Miss Howard. Your cover is crucial. Remain here and ensure our operations are not compromised."

Claire bowed her head in gratitude, her face remaining as stoic as before. "Thank you, my Lord. I will continue to monitor the situation from here and provide support as needed."

As she turned to leave, her eyes met Granger’s for a fleeting moment, and Voldemort caught the subtle distaste tugging at the corners of his spy’s lips. It was a fleeting expression, quickly masked. Jealousy, Voldemort suspected, and annoyance curled through him.

He respected Miss Howard, admired her even, for her stoic nature and impeccable ability to blend into the Muggle world, to get the job done. She was a valuable asset, but her inability to mask her feelings towards Granger was a disappointment. Emotions, especially petty ones like jealousy, had no place in their mission.

"Miss Howard," he said, his tone cutting through the space between them like a knife. "Do not let personal feelings cloud your judgment."

"Of course, my Lord," she replied, her voice steady, but he could sense the underlying tension. With a final bow, she left the room, leaving Voldemort to turn his attention back to the room, to the adventure ahead.

“He is not coming with us,” Voldemort heard Harry hiss, trying to keep his voice from projecting through the room. At first, he assumed Harry was talking about Headauror Weasley, who he had clearly had a falling out with, but when Harry stole a glance—no, a glare—at him, it became abundantly clear that his Soul wasn’t particularly comfortable with him joining this rescue mission.

Voldemort stood still, his expression carefully neutral. He could understand Harry’s reservations. After all, their history was stained with blood, betrayal, and unimaginable pain. But understanding did not negate the sting of rejection. He had expected reluctance, maybe even outright defiance, but this cut deeper.

His mind whirred with conflicting emotions, a storm of resignation, hurt, and understanding battling for dominance. He watched Harry closely, noting the determined set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. This was a man driven by a singular purpose, and Voldemort could not help but admire that.

Still, the ache remained. He had offered his help, his strength, his expertise, and it had been met with suspicion and rejection. A part of him wanted to lash out, to remind Harry of who he was dealing with. But another part, a part he was still coming to terms with, wanted to earn Harry’s trust, to prove that he could be more than the monster he had been.

Voldemort took a deep breath, steadying himself. He would not force his presence where it was not wanted. He would wait, and if the time came when Harry saw the value in his assistance, he would be ready. For now, he would step back and let Harry lead. The rescue mission was too important to Harry to be derailed by their personal conflicts.

He glanced at Draco, who was watching him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Voldemort gave a slight nod, signaling his acquiescence. He would not press the issue. This was Harry’s mission, and Voldemort would respect his wishes, even if it meant stepping aside. For now.

Draco approached him, his usual mask of aloofness tinged with a rare moment of open empathy. "You alright?" he asked quietly, careful not to draw Harry's attention.

Voldemort forced a small smile, appreciating the concern. "I understand his position," he replied, his voice steady but low. "It is...expected."

Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry, then back to Voldemort. "He’ll come around. He just needs time."

Voldemort nodded, though he wasn’t sure time alone would mend the chasm between them.

Harry’s voice cut through his thoughts, firm and resolute. “We need to move quickly. Every second counts.”

The group prepared to leave, tension and anticipation crackling in the air. Voldemort stayed back, his eyes lingering on Harry for a moment longer before turning to Draco. "Take care of him," he said quietly.

Draco gave a curt nod, understanding the weight of those words. "I will."

He turned to Harry, who was eyeing him suspiciously and he rose his voice to carry the command to the other side of the room. “Watch over my husband, he means a great deal to me.”

Beside him, Draco blushed a rosy pink, but Harry seemed to draw himself up and nodded, surprise was evident in the blinking of the vivid green eyes.

With a final glance at the group, Voldemort stepped into the shadows. He would watch from afar, ready to intervene if necessary. For now, he would respect Harry’s wishes and hope that, in time, trust could be built from the ashes of their shared past.

As the group Apparated away, Voldemort was left with his thoughts. The prophecy had once seemed like a cruel joke, a fate he was determined to defy. Now, it felt like a twisted kind of truth. He had tried to destroy Harry, to erase him from existence, but in doing so, he had forged a bond that neither could escape. Harry had changed him, irrevocably. The soulless monster he had been could not survive in the face of Harry’s living, breathing defiance.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that was not such a terrible thing.

Chapter Text

The narrow alleyway they had Apparated to was shrouded in relentless sheets of rain. Cold streams of water cascaded down Hermione’s temples, catching in her lashes and mingling with the strands of her damp hair. The early afternoon felt more like twilight, as heavy charcoal clouds shrouded the world in a premature dusk.

The sound of raindrops striking the ground was a constant, rhythmic patter, almost drowning out the distant murmur of the city. Hermione swallowed a curse as her foot slipped on the slick cobblestones, her breath visible in the chill air.

A hand, quick and firm, caught her by the elbow and steadied her.

"Careful," Malfoy warned, not bothering to glance her way as he released her arm. Unease shimmered in his slate-grey eyes; his gaze fixed on Harry as if it were the last time he’d ever see him.

It agitated Hermione, not just because of the daunting task ahead, but because she recognized that look on Malfoy's face—she had seen it before, the panic on his face when Hagrid had carried a dead Harry into the courtyard. Yet he had still chosen to betray Harry only a year later.

Hermione hadn't volunteered to work with Malfoy merely for the thrill of the mission; it was also a calculated move to keep a closer eye on the Dark Lord's consort.

"Ready?" Malfoy asked, feeling her stare burn into his skin. He had shed his cloak and wore a charcoal grey suit, which had rapidly darkened to a wet black. The downpour had soaked through her curls, and her skirt and blouse did little to protect her from the chilly air. Goosebumps rushed painfully over her skin, and her teeth chattered.

Harry mouthed a silent apology, which she wiped away with a quick smile and a wave of her hand. "We’ve got this," she reassured him for the third time.

"I know, I know," Harry sighed, turning to look at the building looming just over her shoulder. She turned with him.

It was a surprisingly inconspicuous structure, made of the same red brick as all the neighboring buildings. Tall windows, barred by metal railings, offered little view inside, their panes shrouded entirely in darkness. It reminded her more of an old school, one that had been on the stricter end of the spectrum, rather than the scene of multiple, sickening human rights violations.

Hermione could almost feel the presence of her niece and nephews, as if their energy lingered just beyond the thick walls. But she knew it might just be the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her fear taking on a life of its own in the pit of her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and glanced up at Malfoy as he handed her a laminated badge. Her own face grimaced up at her from the photo, a still image taken just an hour prior, and she memorized the name that belied her identity.

"Ready," she said, her voice much steadier than she had anticipated. She felt proud of herself, proud that she was still able to face danger and the unexpected after a decade of domesticity.

"Okay then," Malfoy squared his shoulders. His face morphed from uncertainty to cold arrogance, a display that was as fascinating as it was infuriating. With his chin up and his eyes glinting, he looked shockingly like Lucius Malfoy—a resemblance she hadn’t thought of since seeing the man step into her living room a few days prior, determined to help her and her best friend.

"Please be careful," Harry whispered, his eyes hard with concern and apprehension. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder once. "Protect her, Malfoy," he said louder, sterner. "She is my family."

Malfoy didn't deem a response necessary, but Hermione could see the resolve in the tension of his jaw, the straightening of his spine. She mirrored him, drawing herself up tall.

"Wait," Ron spoke, his voice tense as though he had reluctantly spoken at all. His expression was far from kind when she turned toward him, but he handed her an umbrella, nonetheless.

"You couldn’t have given that to us five minutes ago?" Malfoy asked, and to her own discomfort, she had to silently agree with him.

Ron just shrugged and turned away again, feigning important conversations with his Aurors instead of engaging with any of their preparations.

Malfoy sighed, displaying an almost admirable amount of self-control as he opened the umbrella – an old, slightly crooked thing of aluminum and nylon – and held it over Hermione silently. Stunned, she wanted to giggle at the absurdity of the picture they must be making; The Lord Malfoy, wet and disgruntled, holding an umbrella for a Muggle-born witch.

Diligently ignoring her bewilderment, Malfoy adjusted his own badge around his neck and offered an elbow for Hermione to hold as they began their precarious trek across the cobblestone toward the Muggle facility’s entrance.

Rain and muck seeped into her heels, and she was worried they would slip from her feet as she ascended the stairs to the front door. Silently, Malfoy held the door for her, nodding at her almost imperceptibly as encouragement.

The foyer was not much different from her own office. Speckled linoleum hiding the dirt tracked in, a reception desk just to their left, its pale wood worn. A second set of glass doors restricted access to the rest of the building to those without authorized credentials. Two armed men, security personnel most certainly, stood before it, observing Hermione and Malfoy with heavy skepticism.

Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, the vacuum of magic closing in on her as soon as she stepped over the threshold, the door slamming shut behind them with a heavy crack.

Without her magic, Hermione felt as though a vital part of her had been wrenched away, leaving an aching void in its place. It was like an invisible tether that had always connected her to the world, now severed, leaving her feeling disoriented and incomplete. The sensation was like losing an organ, a constant presence now suddenly gone, creating a hollow emptiness in her core.

Hermione tried hard not to shudder, but kept her eyes focused ahead, her gait unperturbed as they stepped to the receptionist.

"Good afternoon," Malfoy drawled, almost bored, as the young woman looked up at them. "We are here for the scheduled inspection. I trust you have been informed?"

The receptionist, Miss Cowler according to her nametag, studied them, equally as bored and popped a little bubble she had blown of green bubblegum.

Malfoy sighed and checked his wristwatch as though they were wasting precious time. “Please don’t tell me this was not communicated. That would be a crucial oversight.”

“Names?” She finally responded and turned toward her computer screen, long black nails tapping the keyboard.

“Michael Vaughn,” Malfoy responded with the confidence of someone who had always gone by such an ordinary name and Miss Cowler began tapping her shiny nails across the keyboard.

“V-o-g-h-n?” She replied unhurriedly.

“V-a-u-g-h-n,” he countered unperturbed, and Hermione had to command his easy performance.

“And Miss…?” the receptionist finally looked at her, studying her wet clothes with slight distaste.

“Dr., actually. Dr. Sydney Bristow. We’ve met before.” She raised her chin and hoped the lie sounded as effortlessly as Malfoy’s had.

“Of course,” Miss Cowler replied with the air of someone who simply couldn’t care less. “Very well. Mr. Vaughn, Dr. Bristow. Please follow Bramington and Hemming over there to, well, wherever you need to go.”

The guards exchanged wary glances; their distrust unmistakable as they stepped forward regardless. One brandished his own badge against a scanner off to the left and the doors opened with a soft click.

A quick swoop and Malfoy closed the umbrella, rain drops covering the linoleum. He didn’t bother looking at the guard whom he pressed the umbrella into the hand, as though the man was his personal butler and not an enemy with a gun.

Taken by surprised, the guard, Bramington or Hemming Hermione didn’t know, stared at the umbrella dripping onto his uniformed boots, and Hermione raised an eyebrow at him as if daring him to question Malfoy’s authority.

Hermione stepped forward, her gaze steady and unyielding. "We need immediate access to your records and facilities. The Deputy Secretary demanded an update on the Salem Project, and we are here to provide it."

“I’m sure you know your way around,” umbrella guard stated, having found his voice again and Hermione thanked her own foresight to have researched the layout of the facility. It may have changed since the for-sale listing in 2008, but she steered Malfoy to the left and up the hall to find that she had been correct.

Behind her, she heard umbrella guard instruct the other to return to his post while he followed the two of them. Hermione prayed Harry and the rest have had enough time to enter the building on their own.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Admittedly, using Polyjuice Potion might have been the more sensible method of entry. Wind and rain whipped Harry’s cloak around his ankles, the wet fabric clinging to his skin and sending shivers through his body. His teeth clattered obnoxiously as he tried to steady himself against the chill.

Even with raiding the Aurors’ stockpile, it would have taken hours to acquire enough vials for seven people and even longer to ensure their disguises were convincing enough. Harry simply hadn’t been willing to wait that long.

His broom—Malfoy’s retired Nimbus 2021—hovered just above the rooftops, and Harry found himself almost grateful for the rain's cover. With the torrential downpour, it was unlikely that any sane person, Muggle or Wizard, would be walking the streets, let alone staring up into the sky.

Reluctantly, the broom inched downward. The wood was slick with rain, making it difficult for Harry to maintain a firm grip on the handles. His fingers slipped whenever the front end tilted downward, and his arms burned from the effort to remain balanced.

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself, and moments later the broom dropped with a jerk, plummeting toward the building as they breached the edge of the wards. For a heart-stopping moment, he felt suspended in the air, weightless, before his stomach swooped and bitterness and fear burned his esophagus. As the concrete of the flat roof raced toward him, he silently cursed his own stupid fucking idea.

The landing was anything but gentle. He crashed, tumbled, and rolled across the rough surface.

When he finally lay still, he remained on his back, staring up at the sky unseeingly. The shock of the collision left him breathless, his lungs momentarily forgetting how to function as pain, both sharp and dull, radiated through his body in blinding waves. The echo of the impact lingered in his ears; a high-pitched ringing that made it hard to focus.

Fruitlessly, he blinked at the stream of raindrops – the only movement he allowed himself to make. Harry took stock of his injuries, checking for fractures, punctured lungs, and missing limbs. Aside from the sharp sting of scrapes and bruises and the rough texture of the concrete digging into his skin, he couldn’t identify any serious injuries. He exhaled a shaky breath.

From somewhere beside him, Harry could make out the groaning and moaning of the Aurors, their pitiful sounds nearly drowned out by his own. He ignored them, just as he did the panic tightening his muscles and begging him to flee when his magic remained silent.

“Boss,” one of the Aurors lamented between the vivid curses of his fellow colleagues. “When we return, expect a conversation about a promotion. And a raise.”

“Dream on, Paulen,” Ron coughed and rolled onto his hands and knees. Harry followed suit, his ribcage protesting every move he made as he remained there for a moment, catching his breath in shallow swallows.

Paulen’s laugh turned into a hoarse cough.

“Well mate, I can only doubt they didn’t hear us,” another finally said, sitting with his head between his knees. “Also, that was a shite idea.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, finally pushing himself to stand and tentatively taking a few steps. He left the broom where it had landed – the polished wood now splintered and useless.

Feeling as though a hippogriff had trampled him mercilessly, he moved much slower than he wished toward the roof access. The heavy steel door was locked tightly when Harry tried the handle.

With a groan, Harry crouched down, diligently ignoring the protest of his knees against the rough concrete pressing through his trousers. From his back pocket, he plucked a small, slender case Hermione had procured for him earlier—a Muggle lock-picking set he was only vaguely familiar with.

He glanced over his shoulder to ensure Ron and the Aurors were keeping watch before selecting a tension wrench and inserting it into the lock, applying gentle pressure and hoping he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. He willed his hands to stop shaking and was nearly successful in that endeavor.

Harry moved the pick inside the lock, feeling for the pins. One by one, he gently lifted them, the tension wrench keeping the pins from slipping back into place. The cold metal felt strange and unfamiliar against his fingers, but Harry's patience paid off as each pin clicked into place with a tiny, satisfying sound. His brow furrowed in concentration, cold sweat and rain dripping from his forehead as he worked.

Click. Click. Click.

He was so close now, just one more pin. Harry didn’t dare to breathe or make any unnecessary movement, fearing he would have to start all over again. The lock turned with a soft noise, and the door swung open by a gap so small he couldn’t quite see the stairs beyond it.

Harry released the burning breath from his lungs in a long, controlled sigh, too afraid to make much noise.

Tucking the case back into his pocket, he stood, swaying slightly before steadying himself on the cold, wet doorframe.

"You alright?" Ron’s voice was low, the first words he had spoken to Harry since his earlier fit of rage. Ron didn’t quite look at Harry, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate spot over Harry’s head.

Harry gave a soft nod, the motion almost automatic, stepping aside to let Ron and the Aurors move the heavy door. He followed them into the stairway, the quiet click of the door closing behind him punctuating the oppressive silence.

The small, spiral staircase felt increasingly suffocating, the magical shields pressing the void against his skin, amplifying the sensation of being smothered.

Despite his best efforts to prepare himself, Harry could never truly adapt to the feeling of loss that the shields induced. It was like the sudden cessation of a constant background noise that had always been there, unnoticed until it was gone, leaving an unsettling, almost painful, silence in its wake. The very essence of his being felt diminished, as though an essential part of him had been cruelly excised, leaving him struggling to regain his balance.

Each step he took was a battle against an unseen force that seemed to sap his strength and resolve. The mounting panic threatened to overtake him, but he fought it down with a determination born of necessity. His hand blindly sought the dagger strapped to his thigh, its solid presence a small comfort in the midst of chaos.

"Would you even know how to wield a sword?" Ron had asked him.

The truth was, he didn’t.

The weight of the question and its implications bore down on him. He was venturing into the heart of danger with little more than a dagger, his wand rendered useless by the magic-draining shields. The inadequacy of their preparations was almost laughable, a testament to their desperation and perhaps a touch of arrogance. Did Ron know how to fight without magic? Did he? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but there was no turning back now.

Holding the hilt of the dagger, Harry made it to the bottom of the stairs. The Aurors had the hallway door cracked open, cautiously scoping out the area beyond. The stark interior of the facility stood in harsh contrast to the chaotic rainstorm raging outside, its sterile, brightly lit corridors stretching out like veins in a labyrinth, cold and uninviting.

The air was thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic, dragging Harry back to the haunting memories of his own captivity. Each breath he took felt heavy and his heart raced in his chest, a wild drumbeat of fear and determination propelling him forward.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Click, clack. Squish. Click, clack.

Granger’s heels echoed through the sterile hallways. A sharp, rhythmic sound accompanied by the occasional squelch of water against the smooth surface of linoleum. She left wet shoeprints behind.

She walked with the easy confidence of someone who knew the building inside and out. As though she had been here just yesterday and would be tomorrow as well, she navigated the identical corridors with a steady gait, leading Draco and the guard behind her.

Granger didn’t wait for Draco, expecting him to follow obediently. A decade ago, he would have fought against the unbalanced power dynamic with all the arrogance and stubborn pride that had defined his youth. Back then, he couldn’t have fathomed taking directions from the Muggleborn, let alone working alongside her.

Now, as he followed Granger through the cold hallways, he saw echoes of Astoria in her confident stride and unwavering determination.

Draco, however, had to remind himself not to look around too often, to keep his hands out of his hair and away from his tie, to avoid giving away his nerves. With each rounding of another corner, his plan to memorize the layout became a distant dream and he silently prayed to Merlin Granger knew her way out.

The surroundings reminded Draco of a Muggle hospital, as plain and sterile as those on the drama programs Mother had started to obsess over on the telly. The only thing missing were the doctors and nurses dressed in plain blue scrubs and white lab coats – indeed, the lack of personnel gnawed at Draco’s intuition, faint alarm bells ringing in the distant corners of his mind.

Granger hummed, a contemplative sound. A soft, thoughtful note that seemed to resonate through the unwelcoming corridor. Draco bit his tongue before he could ask her what was on her mind, allowing her to piece together whatever puzzle she was working on.

“Bramington,” she snapped her finger with a sharp gesture, not bothering to turn around and face the man as she addressed him.

"It’s Arnold Hemming, Doctor," the guard grumbled, holding Draco’s dripping wet umbrella at arm’s length, trailing behind them with evident reluctance.

“Right, yes. I must insist on speaking with Dr. Gilderoy Lockhart this afternoon,” she continued without a hiccup and Draco was proud of himself when he didn’t guffaw at the name. “He had a particularly interesting suggestion last time we spoke, and I would like to follow up on his progress. Would you mind terribly to request his presence?”

Without missing a beat, the guard’s twisted into an expression of apology, a mocking imitation of it, and shook his head. “I apologize, but Dr. Lockhart is on vacation this week. Escaped the rain to the Maldives, you see?”

“Ah yes of course,” she replied quickly, nodding her head so her wet curls bounced. “I’m sure his boys are grateful for it.”

“His wife even more so,” umbrella guard lied quickly, coming to a halt when Granger and Draco did.

"Right, right," Granger agreed easily, her eyes drifting to the umbrella and frowning in clear disapproval.

"Oh, give me that," she sighed, waving her hand impatiently. Granger's arm swung wide, nearly smacking Draco, who cautiously stepped aside and out of her reach.

Grateful to be rid of the wet thing, Hemming held out the umbrella for her to grasp.

The sound of thunder reverberated through the building, a low rumble that seemed to shake the very walls. Draco and the guard both instinctively looked upward to the ceiling, expecting something to crash through at any moment and in that fleeting distraction, they nearly missed Granger's swift movement.

In a blur, Granger took hold of the umbrella. With a deft flick of her hand, she twisted the handle, looping its curved end around Hemming’s wrist. Before the guard could react, she pivoted sharply, using the momentum to leverage his weight against him.

Hemming’s eyes widened in surprise as his balance shifted. Granger’s movements were fluid and precise, a dance of calculated force. She twisted her body, driving her shoulder into his chest, and with a final, decisive shove, sent the guard crashing into the wall. The impact was hard, the stark white surface echoing with the loud thud of his body colliding.

A rushed gush of air escaped from the man’s lungs before his eyes rolled back and head lolled to the side.

"What in Salazar’s name was that?" Draco managed to whisper harshly, his heart racing as he regained his bearings.

"Aikido," Granger replied, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "A modified version of it, I suppose."

Draco stared at the unconscious man at their feet, the guard’s form slumped awkwardly against the wall. "I’d say," he mumbled, making a mental note never to engage in a physical altercation with the Muggle-born witch, not that previous encounters had ever turned out favorably for him.

"How long do you think he is out for?" Draco finally inquired, watching as Granger calmly undid the clasp of the guard’s keys, pocketing them before fixing her curls, adjusting her jacket. She looked entirely unperturbed, and he had to admit, he was impressed.

Granger glanced down at the unconscious guard, then back at Draco, her expression thoughtful. "Hard to say exactly. Could be a few minutes, could be longer," she replied with a shrug. "Depends on how hard he hit his head."

Draco nodded. "I must say, that was magnificent."

Granger seemed to allow herself a small, satisfied smile. "I’m sure that must have been hard for you to admit." She stepped over the guard's prone form, motioning for Draco to follow her.

"Come on, no time to lose," she said, her tone becoming more serious. "They are aware."

Draco fell into step beside her, his mind still reeling. "I can see why they always put you in charge," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Granger glanced at him sideways, her expression incredulous for a moment. "Thank you, Malfoy. Now, let’s focus on the task at hand."

Draco nodded. "Lead the way, Doctor," he said, falling into step beside her.

~~~~~*~~~~~

"Clear. Keep moving," Ron's voice broke through the haze of memories the scent of antiseptic had thrown Harry into. The Head Auror was leading the way with a steely resolve that Harry almost envied.

They moved quickly, Ron’s keen sense of direction and unerring focus guiding them through the circuitous corridors. Harry followed, his mind racing with thoughts of his children. Every empty room they passed intensified his dread.

Ron had always been brilliant in his own moments, but Harry remembered the self-doubt and insecurity that had once plagued his friend. Back then, it was often Harry or Hermione who took the lead. Now, Ron moved with a confidence that demanded trust, and Harry suddenly felt he didn’t know this person as he once had.

"Left here," Ron directed, not missing a beat. His Aurors, as well as Harry, followed him without question or hesitancy.

Paulen held a silvery thing, something Harry could only identify as a machete, in one hand, his useless wand in the other. His colleagues, mirror images of him, flanked Harry and Ron in a triangular formation.

They advanced quietly, every step a careful, calculated move. The facility was eerily silent, the only sounds their muffled footsteps and the distant hum of machinery. Harry strained to hear any sign of his children; the distant screaming of ‘patients’, the quiet cry for parents or loved ones. But with every empty room they passed, his dread intensified, the gnawing fear that he might be too late already.

A sudden noise yanked him back to the present, away from the ghostly faces of his children haunting his waking mind. A guard rounded the corner ahead, eyes widening in surprise as he spotted them.

Harry's heart lurched, but before he could react, Ron moved with lightning speed. His hand shot out, silencing the guard with a swift, precise blow to the nose. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious, leaving the hallway once again in tense, oppressive silence.

"Quickly," Ron hissed, his eyes flashing with urgency as he stepped around the unconscious body. "Keep moving."

Of course. Ron did know how to fight; how had he forgotten?

They continued to move with purpose, breaking down doors and scanning every room, but there were no signs of occupancy. Sweat ran cold down his back as panic seeped through his veins: there were no signs of any children – or any wizards, for that matter.

As they approached another set of doors – just as white, just as sterile – sirens blared, echoing through the facility and sending a jolt of agony through Harry. "We've been spotted," he muttered, his grip tightening on his dagger, the other hand drawing his unresponsive wand. "Or Malfoy and Hermione have been caught."

"They’ll be alright," Ron hissed, clearly more concerned with the sudden influx of sound – the banging of doors, the rapping of boots on linoleum.

With renewed urgency, they pressed forward, rounding a corner only to come face-to-face with enough men to fill a Quidditch team. The guards were heavily, and contemporarily, armed, and Harry's heart sank as he admitted they were terribly outnumbered.

"Drop your weapons!" One of the men shouted, leveling his gun at Harry.

Just as he raised his hands, a hum of power rippled through the air. The lights flickered and went dark, plunging the corridor into the obscurity of night. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence. Then Harry felt it—a rush of warmth and strength surging back into his body. The familiar feel of magic flowed through him again.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Gobsmacked, Hermione stared at what was left of the brolly.

In the dim flicker of the emergency light, she could make out the handle protruding from the electrical box, the aluminum bent and dented beyond recognition. Smoke curled up from the box, mingling with the revolting smell of melted plastic that hung heavy in the air. Hermione shook her head, trying to clear the buzzing in her ears and make sense of what had just happened.

It hadn’t taken them long to find the Electrical Room. In a sea of unremarkable white doors, it had stood out with the glaring “DANGER! Electrical Room – Unauthorized Personnel Keep Out” sign. Getting inside had been simple enough—after trying several keys on the ring Hermione had stolen from Hemming, the lock had clicked, and the door had swung open.

“Well, we’re definitely unauthorized personnel now,” she had muttered to herself as they had entered the electrical room.

It had been small and cramped, filled with humming machinery and blinking lights. It was here that the magic-draining ward had been powered—at least, she had desperately hoped. With everything powered by electricity in the Muggle world, it had only been logical for the ward’s core to be powered through electricity as well.

“Nothing but a theory,” Malfoy had lamented.

“Hypothesis, to be correct.” She hadn’t been able to bite her tongue. “I am making a specific, testable assumption based on my understanding of how the ward might be powered. Since I have not yet confirmed this assumption through evidence or experimentation, it is a hypothesis.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are an insufferable know-it-all?” Malfoy had dared to ask, his tone not quite as biting as it could have been. The glint in her eyes had made him reconsider, and he had quickly followed with, “Apologies, Granger—force of habit.”

“We need to shut it down,” Hermione had said instead, her eyes scanning the rows of switches and circuits. Her mind had raced, trying to piece together what might disrupt the ward’s power source. But everything had looked so foreign, so impenetrable.

“Any ideas?” Malfoy had asked, his voice tense but controlled.

Hermione had hesitated, her heart pounding as the weight of the decision had pressed down on her. One wrong move, and they could be the ones lying lifeless on the floor. But what choice did they have? The alternative was far worse.

“This is so far removed from anything I’ve studied… It’s all guesswork at this point,” she had admitted.

Malfoy’s eyes had landed on a large, central electrical box, its wires snaking out like arteries feeding the room’s lifeblood. “What about that?” he had suggested, pointing.

“It could work… or it could fry us both,” Hermione had replied, her voice tight with the uncertainty of the moment.

Malfoy had shot her a surprisingly lopsided grin. “We’ve survived worse, I know with certainty.”

Just then, the alarm had pierced the air, loud and unmistakable. The shrill sound had sent a jolt of fear through Hermione. Whether Hemming had woken up and sounded it, or Bramington had noticed when Hemming had stopped responding, didn’t matter. They had needed to stop whatever was feeding the ward now or risk their own lives and those of everyone else.

Before she could have protested, Malfoy had grabbed the nearest object—their only weapon against the unknown—the umbrella.

“Malfoy, wait—” she had screamed against the alarm, but he had already been moving, his determined look had silenced her.

With a swift motion, Malfoy had shoved the pointed end into the electrical box, twisting it forcefully. The reaction had been immediate and violent.

A blinding flash of sparks had erupted, and the brolly’s aluminum frame bent and twisted as it connected with the inner circuits. The box had emitted a low, ominous hum before a loud pop echoed through the room. Smoke had billowed out, carrying the acrid scent of burning plastic and metal.

Hermione had instinctively jumped back, coughing as the smoke filled the small space. Her eyes had watered, but through the haze, she had seen the lights on the machinery flicker and die, one by one. The alarm that had filled the room, the very air, had quieted to nothing.

Now, Hermione could barely hear her own breathing over the pounding of her heart, the acrid smell of burnt plastic still clinging to the air.

“I mean, it worked,” Malfoy said into the sudden silence, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and smug satisfaction.

Hermione shot him a look that was somewhere between exasperation and begrudging admiration. “That’s a surprising amount of brute force for someone who’s usually so… delicate with his hands.”

Malfoy smirked, though there was a faint edge of relief in his eyes. “When in doubt, Granger, sometimes a little brute force is exactly what’s needed.”

She glanced at the twisted remains of the brolly now embedded in the box and shook her head. “That was Arthur’s favorite umbrella.”

Malfoy’s smirk sharpened as he shrugged. “I’ll buy the old Weasel a new one.”

Hermione looked up at him, a hysteric giggle forcing its way to the surface. “You’d better.”

“Ready?” Malfoy asked for the second time today, his voice steady.

Hermione nodded, her resolve hardening. “Let’s go.”

They moved quickly, leaving the smoldering wreckage behind as they pushed deeper into the now darkened facility, their magic strengthening with every hurried step.

~~~~~*~~~~~

A collective breath was held in the darkness, the tension expectant.

Harry’s mind raced, his body tingling. The wand in his hand thrummed with energy, and he knew the others felt it too. His breath came out in a shaky exhale, relief flooding him as he realized they now had the upper hand.

“Fuck,” a hushed voice swore from across the darkness, and it released Harry from his surprise. He smiled for only the shadows to see.

His voice a low, menacing hiss Harry cast without thinking. "Expelliarmus!" The red beam of light shot through the dark corridor, striking the lead guard's weapon and sending it clattering to the floor. Chaos erupted as the other guards scrambled to react too late.

"Stupefy!" Ron shouted, his spell hitting another guard square in the chest, sending him crashing into the wall.

"Protego!" Harry cast, blocking the bullets fired by a panicked guard. The rounds ricocheted off the invisible barrier, harmlessly embedding into the walls.

In the midst of the turmoil, the Aurors moved with practiced precision, casting spells to disarm and incapacitate the remaining guards. The air crackled with magic; the corridor illuminated by flashes of light from various spells.

Harry raised his wand toward the nearest wall as the Aurors bound the unconscious men. "Homenum Revelio," he whispered urgently, his voice steady despite the galloping of his heart. A faint, magical pulse emanated from his wand, sweeping through the corridors and rooms of the facility.

“Bloody hell,” his curse came out hoarse and panicked as the realization hit him.

There were less than a dozen people in this building, not counting those currently incapacitated by Ron, his Aurors, or himself.

“This is a trap!”

Ron turned sharply; eyes wide with concern in the light cast from his wand. "What do you mean?"

"There aren't enough people here," Harry explained, his voice trembling with fear and fury. "It's not enough. They expected us."

"Split up," Ron ordered, his voice commanding and calm despite the chaos. "Find the children and get them out."

As the group dispersed, Harry made his way toward the part of the building he had sensed the faint life forces of smaller humans, only absently noting Paulen following him. They navigated the sterile hallways, each turn the same as the last, the oppressive silence only broken by the distant echoes of spells and shouts.

They reached a reinforced door and Harry wasted no time. "Alohomora!" he commanded, but the door remained stubbornly locked. Frustration flared, but he quickly suppressed it. "Bombarda!" he cast at the same time as Paulen did, and the door exploded inward with a deafening blast, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.

Harry moved cautiously through the room, his heart pounding deafeningly in his chest. The walls seemed to close in on him, the air thick with the stench of damp and despair.

His eyes darted around, scanning the shadows for any sign of his children. Each step felt like an eternity, the anticipation nearly unbearable.

He had to find them. He had to save them. And there they were.

Huddled in a corner, their small bodies wrapped in tattered blankets, were his sons. For a moment, he couldn't believe his eyes. They were so thin, so frail, that they looked like shadows of the vibrant children he remembered. Their faces were gaunt, eyes hollow with fear and exhaustion. The sight of them broke something deep within him as relief washed over him so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees.

He stumbled forward, his heart soaring and aching, his eyes misting. “Albus! James!” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He fell to his knees, gathering them into his arms, holding them close as if he could shield them from all the horrors they had endured.

They clung to him, their thin arms wrapping around his neck with a desperate strength. Harry felt the sharp angles of their bones, the hollowness of their cheeks, and his heart shattered at the evidence of their suffering.

They were so light, so frail, and the reality of their condition pierced him like a dagger. He pressed kisses to their foreheads, their cheeks, whispering soothing words through his own tears.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here,” he murmured, his voice trembling. He rocked them gently, trying to comfort them as much as himself. The overwhelming joy of holding them again was tempered by the searing pain of seeing how much they had endured. They were scared, their eyes darting around the room, haunted by the horrors they had faced. “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Albus looked up at him, his green eyes—so much like Harry’s own— dull but shining with tears. “Dad, I am so scared,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying.

Harry’s heart ached with a fierce protectiveness. “I know, Al. I know. But you’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

James clung to his father, his body shaking with sobs. “I missed you so much,” he cried, his voice muffled against Harry’s chest.

“I missed you too, Jamie. Every second of every day,” Harry replied, his voice breaking. He held them tighter, as if he could somehow make up for the time they had been apart, for the suffering they had seen.

Slowly, as the initial wave of relief began to ebb, he pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning the room.

“Where’s Lily?” he asked, his voice trembling with a new kind of fear.

“She’s not here,” Albus said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We haven’t seen her.”

“We haven’t seen her since Mum died,” James whispered, his fists tightening in Harry’s robes.

Harry stared at them, uncomprehendingly.

Chapter Text

Voldemort remained in the confines of the Malfoy Manor study; the lavish room dull in its own opulence. His mind, sharp and calculating, reached out through the bond, tracking the ebb and flow of Draco’s emotions with meticulous care.

The room, draped in the shadows of rich, dark furnishings that usually brought him satisfaction, now offered no comfort, no distraction, replaced by a simmering irritation that refused to be soothed.

The ornate vase of roses, wilting and sad, had been adjusted countless times. The ancient tomes—better suited to Hogwarts’ dusty library—had been sorted and reshelved in a futile attempt to find purpose.

He detested these trivial tasks, these meaningless acts of occupation, but they were all that kept his restless thoughts from descending into something darker.

Uselessness.

The very idea gnawed at him, the indignity of being deemed inessential to the mission rankling in a way he found nearly intolerable.

Control, power, influence—these were his birthrights, and yet here he was, left behind, his role reduced to waiting.

He despised it. Every moment was a reminder of his supposed redundancy. But he would not be idle.

No, Voldemort’s mind was far from dormant.

Draco’s emotional state bled through the bond, each flicker of anxiety or resolve noted with clinical precision. While Voldemort’s own feelings were tightly controlled, locked behind a fortress of will, he allowed himself the smallest measure of satisfaction in monitoring Draco’s progress.

They may have left him behind, but Voldemort was anything but powerless. Every nuance, every subtle shift in the bond was his to observe, his to master.

And when the inevitable moment arrived, as he knew it would, he would be there—not to rescue or protect in the sentimental manner of a knight in shining armor, but as the force that they could never do without, the one who would ensure their safety, their survival, their victory.

Voldemort’s fingers drummed rhythmically on the polished surface of his desk, the sharp echo a counterpoint to the storm brewing within as much as around him. He was not one to be relegated to the role of an observer, not when those he held so close—so intimately tethered to his very existence—were out there, vulnerable.

He rose from his seat, the harsh scrape of the chair against the floor a match for the thunder striking outside. He moved to the window, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of Malfoy Manor.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the ebb and flow of Draco’s emotions continued to wash over him—waves of fear and apprehension, tempered by sharp flashes of pride when Draco’s resolve shone through. Each of these feelings Voldemort noted with satisfaction, a silent acknowledgment of his husband’s strength.

He turned to settle into the armchair, but a sudden jolt of panic, raw and overwhelming, slammed into him with such force that it nearly took his breath away.

This wasn’t the familiar echo of Draco’s fear, something he had grown accustomed to, something he could soothe with ease. No, this was something entirely different—intense, foreign, and steeped in a helplessness and despair that felt jarringly out of place.

Recognition struck him like a physical blow. The taste of these emotions, this particular brand of panic, was all too familiar, like a sweet that he hadn’t indulged in for years.

This was not Draco’s panic. It was Harry’s.

For a moment, Voldemort was disoriented. The boundaries of reality blurring in a way they had not for more than a decade. It was as if he were seeing through Harry’s eyes, feeling through Harry’s skin.

He saw it then, the dimly lit room, the sterile walls pressing in like a vice. The air was thick with dread, smothering in its weight.

And there was Voldemort’s Soul, his face a twisted mask of anguish, eyes wide and wild with fear as he clung desperately to two boys. Voldemort’s breath caught, the sight jarring him with a wave of unexpected emotion.

Harry’s sons, Voldemort presumed.

The connection between them pulsed, alive and thrumming with Harry’s despair, and for the briefest of moments, Voldemort felt the full force of it—a father’s terror, a primal need to protect at any cost, the guilt at having failed. It was devastating, strangling, and utterly unlike anything Voldemort had ever allowed himself to feel.

Voldemort pulled back, reasserting control. The lingering taste of Harry’s panic remained, bitter on his tongue.

He could not afford to be overwhelmed, but he could not ignore it either—the raw, desperate emotion that still bled through from one part of the soul to the other.

Voldemort’s grip tightened, the possessiveness that relentlessly simmered beneath the surface now roaring to life.

Harry’s panic would not go unanswered. He would find them, protect them—his Draco, his Harry, his children. They were all his, and he would let nothing stand in the way of claiming what was his possession.

Before Voldemort could consider his next steps, the sensation of Apparition gripped him, the magic tugging at the very core of his being on its very own. He didn’t resist it; the vision of Harry’s face, twisted in anguish, was clear in his mind.

It was a call he could not ignore, nor did he want to. He had waited for it.

The world twisted around him, the familiar pull of Apparition aligning his senses with the urgency of his intent. When the disorienting whirl ceased, he found himself standing in a dimly lit corridor, the sterile scent of antiseptic stinging his nostrils. The place reeked of fear, of desperation, and beneath it all, the faint, unmistakable scent of blood.

He moved with deliberate purpose, each stride silent and calculated, as he homed in on the source of the distress that still reverberated in his mind.

The connection between him and Harry thrummed with potent intensity here, sharper, more acute, as though the very air crackled with the remnants of Harry’s panic.

His Harry.

The thought reverberated through his mind, and he savored it, even as Harry’s emotions surged, feeding the possessiveness that roared to life within him.

A grim smile curled his lips; the Dark Lord would not be denied what was his.

Voldemort turned a corner, his senses finely attuned to every sound, every subtle shift in the air. The sterile, labyrinthine corridors of the facility stretched out before him, but his focus was unerring. He could feel them—Draco and Harry—their emotions resonating along the bonds that bound them to him.

Closer now. He was so close.

Another turn, and the corridor widened into a larger space, a hall branching off into several other rooms. It was here that the emotions struck him most acutely—a sudden, piercing wave of despair, sharp as a blade twisting in his chest.

“Potter! Potter, listen!” Draco’s voice sliced through the fog of Harry’s escalating panic, and Voldemort quickened his pace, urgency driving him forward.

“No…” The word was a choked whisper, filled with a despair that bordered on madness. “No, no, no…”

Voldemort swept through the remnants of the shattered doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

Draco’s voice rose, louder, more insistent. “Listen to me!” Draco was grappling with a frantic Harry, who struggled to break free. “She is not here!”

Voldemort’s eyes swept over the scene, taking in every detail with a sharpness honed by decades of vigilant observation. The children were huddled together, their small bodies trembling, faces hollowed by fear, eyes wide and terrified, fixed squarely onto him.

He had made no effort to soften his appearance; the serpentine mask of the Dark Lord Voldemort remained firmly in place, his features as cold and unyielding as ever. Perhaps, he mused, that had been a misstep.

But no matter. They would learn to accept, even to revere him as he intended.

What concerned him more was the glaring absence. There were only two children before him, and Voldemort distinctly remembered Harry having three. A girl, if his memory served him correctly.

“Enough,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the disarray like a blade, sharp and unyielding. The word hung in the air, commanding immediate attention, slowing the turmoil that surrounded them. He moved swiftly, his steps precise and measured, crossing the distance before the scene could further escalate.

Draco’s grip on Harry tightened, his desperation evident in the strain of his muscles, as if he could tether Harry to reality through sheer force of will.

But Harry’s eyes, wild and frantic, locked onto Voldemort’s, and for a moment, Voldemort saw the raw, untamed emotion there—a storm of horror, and despair that threatened to tear Harry apart.

“Lily is not in this building.” Draco’s voice, thick with emotion, broke the silence, and Voldemort noted with a flicker of surprise the uncharacteristic crack in Draco’s usually steady tone. His eyes, usually so guarded, were pleading, as though his own heart, his own sanity, hung in the balance.

But Harry seemed deaf to the words, his body still straining against Draco’s hold, driven by a primal need to search, to fight, to find.

Voldemort’s hand shot out, capturing Harry’s arm with a vice-like grip, stopping him cold.

Harry swung out, a wild, desperate strike, but Voldemort remained unfazed, his grip unyielding, his patience untested.

“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice was smooth, calculated, the name rolling off his tongue with an eerie calm. His sharp nails dug into Harry’s flesh, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make a point—a crucial reminder of his control. “Your Lily is not here.”

Harry’s head shook violently, tears streaking his face, his voice breaking as he whispered, "I can't leave without her. I can't leave her behind."

Voldemort leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, a dark, intimate caress against Harry’s ear. “And you will not, Harry,” he murmured, his tone a dangerous blend of tenderness and command, weaving a web of control around the broken man before him.

Harry reacted instinctively, lashing out with a vicious kick that connected with Voldemort’s shin. But the Dark Lord remained composed, his expression unchanging, the saccharine tone of his voice unwavering, as if the attack had been no more than an annoying inconvenience.

“She is not in this building,” Voldemort continued, his voice a velvet thread, binding and inescapable. “Lily is elsewhere, and we will find her. But until then, we must leave. We must leave now.”

“Get. The fuck. Out of my head,” Harry growled, the words laced with fury and defiance.

Voldemort barely had a moment to register the shift before he was met with the full force of Harry’s Occlumency shields, a sudden, crystalline barrier that nearly caused him to stumble. The sheer intensity of it was unexpected, a sharp reminder that the man before him was no longer the frightened boy he had once toyed with.

But instead of anger, Voldemort felt a twisted sense of satisfaction bloom within him. He smiled, a slow, dark curl of his lips, as he watched Harry straighten, regaining his composure, the wildness in his eyes now twisted with fury.

“Yes,” Voldemort murmured, almost to himself, the pride he felt as intoxicating as it was territorial. “There you are, Harry.”

“Potter, look at me,” Draco’s voice was sharp, cutting through the chaotic energy swirling around Harry. He stepped closer, his presence demanding attention. For a brief moment, he exchanged a look with Voldemort—one filled with warning, irritation simmering beneath the surface.

“We will find Lily,” Draco insisted, his voice firm. “But we need to get Albus and James to safety first. You know this. We can’t help her if we’re caught here.”

Harry’s response was immediate, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “We won’t get caught.” His eyes, usually a vivid green, had darkened to a toxic, venomous shade—one that promised inevitable death. But not for him. Never for him.

“No,” Harry continued, his tone dripping with lethal intent, “I will burn this building to the ground. Every single Muggle that dared to lay a hand on my children will pay.”

Voldemort’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the raw, murderous rage in Harry’s expression. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in him before—pure, unfiltered wrath, ready to consume everything in its path. Voldemort was infatuated with it.

“And how do you intend to proceed, my Soul?” Voldemort asked, his voice a silken purr that held an undercurrent of dark excitement. He stepped closer to Harry, the heat radiating from the man’s magic palpable in the air between them.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Voldemort, wild and burning with a fury that sent a thrill down Voldemort’s spine.

“I will show them,” Harry hissed, his voice low and venomous, vibrating with the promise of destruction. “I will show them what it means to be caught in a hell of their own making.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

This was what he had always known to lay dormant within Harry—the raw, untampered power, now unleashed without the suffocating restraint of morality. It was magnificent, a terrifying beauty that Voldemort found utterly intoxicating.

“Then lead the way,” Voldemort murmured, his voice a silken whisper, reverent as if in the presence of a divine force. “Burn it all, Harry. Leave nothing but ashes.”

Harry needed no further encouragement, his resolve solidifying into something terrifyingly absolute.

But before he could unleash the storm brewing within him, an insistent voice cut through the charged air, desperate and pleading.

“No, wait, Harry.” Miss Granger’s voice, tinged with concern, broke through the murderous haze, dragging Harry back from the precipice.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in irritation, his gaze flicking to the witch who had dared to interfere. Her interruptions were grating, and he felt a surge of anger that she would try to stop Harry’s righteous wrath.

“There are innocent people in this building,” Miss Granger pleaded, stepping forward, her hand outstretched as if to physically hold Harry back.

Harry’s expression twisted, the fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “These people killed Ginny, ‘Mione. They murdered the mother of my children. They tortured my sons for a year, took my daughter to Merlin knows where. There are no innocent people here. They will all burn.”

Miss Granger’s shoulders sagged under the weight of Harry’s words, her eyes filled with a weary sadness that spoke of battles fought too often. Voldemort observed her with a cold detachment, his anger simmering.

Perhaps, Miss Granger wouldn’t like the man Harry was about to become, but Voldemort would allow no one to stop this transformation—not even Harry’s dear friend.

“You take my sons, Hermione,” Harry commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Ron, go with her. Protect them. Take them to St. Mungo’s, to Astoria. Malfoy, you too.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco declared immediately. He stood there, resolute, his pale features set with determination, and Voldemort couldn’t help but admire the fire in those steel-grey eyes.

“I’m staying with my husband; I’m staying with you,” Draco continued, his voice carrying the weight of his resolve. There was no hesitation, no faltering in his stance. He was willing to face whatever darkness lay ahead, not because he had to, but because he chose to. “I swore it to Tom and I swore it to you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The dimly lit room, the impending fight, all faded into the background as he took in the sight of his Heart—strong, unwavering, and utterly devoted.

He could see the fierce determination in Draco’s eyes, the steadfast refusal to be sent away like some helpless bystander. It was a resolve born out of love and an unyielding bond that nothing could sever. And in that moment, Voldemort felt a dangerous sense of adoration—a twisted satisfaction that Draco, his Draco, would stand beside him no matter the cost.

Harry hesitated, as if weighing the danger against the loyalty Draco was offering. It was a fleeting moment, but Voldemort saw it—the flicker of concern, the realization that this was a battle none of them might walk away from unscathed. Yet, Harry nodded reluctantly, conceding to Draco’s stubbornness.

“Alright,” Harry finally said, his voice tight.

“Now, Hermione,” Harry commanded, his voice steadying as he took charge of the situation. The urgency in his tone was impossible to ignore, and Miss Granger, ever the voice of reason, didn’t waste a second. She reached out, taking Albus’s smaller hand in her own with a comforting squeeze.

Headauror Weasley moved swiftly to James’s side, his hand firm and reassuring on the boy’s shoulder. There was a brief, tense silence as the two children looked up at their father, their expressions mirroring the uncertainty of the moment. But Harry’s nod, though reluctant, was enough to set their minds at ease.

“Take care of them,” Harry murmured. There was a plea in those words, a father’s desperate hope that his children would be kept safe from the horrors they had already endured.

“We will,” the Muggleborn promised, her voice steady as she met Harry’s gaze.

And with a final nod of good luck, Miss Granger, Headauror Weasley, and the two boys disappeared, the sound of their Apparition echoing faintly in the corridor.

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with anticipation, until Voldemort broke it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a commanding edge. “You’re dismissed as well,” he directed at the three Aurors who lingered, their uncertainty palpable in the tense air. “I suggest you pay the informant another visit and find out what the hell went wrong.”

There was no room for argument in his tone, only the expectation of immediate obedience. The Aurors, already on edge, straightened instinctively at the authority in his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” they responded in unison, their voices quick and firm. They didn’t waste a moment, disappearing with the sharp crack of Apparition, leaving only the faintest ripple of displaced air in their wake.

With their departure, the corridor fell into a profound silence, broken only by the distant, ominous creaks of the building around them, the storm raging on beyond the thick walls.

Voldemort’s gaze swept over the now-empty space, the faint traces of magic lingering in the air as he turned back to Harry and Draco.

Alone now, with nothing to stand in their way, they were free to unleash the full extent of their wrath. The building itself seemed to hold its breath, as if recognizing the dark power gathered within its walls.

Voldemort’s lips stretched into a faint, predatory smile. “Shall we, then?” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost indulgent, as he gestured forward, inviting Harry to lead the way.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His eyes were alight with a lethal determination, and with a nod to Draco, he took the first step, his intent clear and unshakable. They would leave nothing but death in their wake.

~~~~~*~~~~~

With his sons gone, safe at last, Harry let go—let go of the restraint, let go of the fear, and allowed himself to sink fully into the intoxicating rush of vengeance that flooded his veins.

It was fierce, relentless, and it twisted through him like a living thing, coiling around his heart and burning away the last remnants of his hesitation.

He smiled.

Maybe he had lost his mind. Maybe he had lost himself in the process. But if he was being brutally honest… was that really his fault?

That dark, vicious voice inside him whispered no. It wasn’t his fault. Not when his little girl—his sweet Lily—was out there somewhere, alone, scared, hurt.

The thought of her suffering, of the horrors she might be enduring, fanned the flames of his rage, turning it into something uncontainable, something that demanded justice for every tear, every scream, every ounce of pain she and her brothers had suffered.

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself, his hand tightening around his wand. He had never cast this spell before, but he knew the destruction it could bring, the sheer devastation it could unleash if he lost control. He just prayed that Malfoy wasn’t afraid of fire.

With one last exhale, he closed his eyes, focusing all his fury, all his grief, into the tip of his wand. And then, with a calm that belied the storm raging inside him, he began to cast the spell that would bring this place, and everyone in it, to its knees.

~~~~~*~~~~~

It was devastatingly beautiful as much as it was terrifying. Like a serpent of fire, the Fiendfyre coiled its way out of Potter’s wand, slithering over the floor, leaving the linoleum marred and melted in its wake. The sheer power of it, raw and unrestrained, sent a shiver through Draco—part fear, part awe.

Potter walked straight through the inferno he’d unleashed, the golden tongues of flame licking up the walls, yet parting before him as if the fire itself recognized its master, only closing once Tom and he had followed.

The sight was enough to leave Draco breathless, and not just from the heat. There was something intoxicating about the way the flames seemed to obey Potter’s will, bending to his fury, channeling his wrath.

The heat coiled along Draco’s skin, igniting something deep within him as well.

Merlin, he was done for. Potter looked breathtakingly beautiful in that moment, the magic flowing from him in crushing waves, his hair wild and untamed, his eyes ablaze with something feral, something deadly. He was a force of nature, unstoppable and unforgiving.

And here Draco was, following this vengeful maniac through the halls, watching as the building melted and crumbled around them, destruction falling in their wake. He should have been terrified—was terrified—but there was something else there too, something that made his heart race and his breath catch. Potter’s power was both his doom and his salvation, and Draco was helpless against it, drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

Draco blinked, trying to shake the haze from his mind as the world around him seemed to flicker. It started overhead, the dim, artificial lights buzzing feebly, flickering alive. Then, in the corner of his vision, the Fiendfyre itself began to waver, its once fierce and unrelenting flames sputtering as the wards reasserted themselves, yanking the magic away.

And just like that, the spell died, leaving behind a trail of destruction—flames still burning, but now wild and uncontrolled, no longer bound by the will of the caster.

The heat was suffocating, unbearable, as the flames devoured everything in their path. Smoke swirled around him, filling his lungs with each breath, burning its way through his body. He coughed, his throat raw, and turned to Voldemort with a look of desperation.

“Why didn’t the wards kill the fire as well?” Draco rasped, struggling to speak through the smoke that seemed to choke him with every word.

Tom’s eyes were cold, almost detached, as if the chaos around them was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Because it already exists,” he replied, his voice calm, unnervingly so. “It has shifted from the theoretical, the magical, to the physical. Now it behaves as any other flame would.”

Draco stared at him, trying to wrap his mind around the explanation even as the flames roared closer, the heat pressing in from all sides.

“The Fiendfyre itself,” Tom continued, “only exists through the continuous application of magic. Without magic, it ceases to be.”

Draco swallowed hard. The Fiendfyre was gone, but the fire it had left behind was all too real, and it was out of control. He could feel the void where his magic should be, a hollow, aching emptiness that made his skin crawl, and he knew they needed to move—fast.

“Out, we need to get out,” Draco said, his voice hoarse as he glanced at Potter, who still seemed caught between his rage and the rapidly deteriorating situation around them. The flames danced dangerously close, casting flickering shadows across Potter’s face, and Draco could see the struggle in his eyes—the desire to keep fighting, to burn it all down, warring with the realization that they needed to survive.

Tom nodded; his expression unreadable. "Move, Draco. Harry," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "We don’t have much time."

To Draco’s relief, Potter nodded before rushing ahead down the corridor, away from the flames and toward a grand staircase, still untouched by the rapidly spreading fire.

Just short of the steps, Potter came to an abrupt halt, and Draco, following closely behind, nearly collided with him. He stumbled, but Tom's firm grip on his arm steadied him before he could fall.

"Harry," Tom warned, his voice finally laced with urgency. But when Draco looked past Potter, he understood what had frozen him in place.

A woman stood at the top of the stairs, her lips twisted into a triumphant grin that sent a chill down Draco's spine. The gleaming gun in her hand was aimed unerringly at Potter, and the sight of it made Draco's breath catch.

He didn’t recognize her—her eyepatch was distinctive, but her face was unfamiliar. Yet, everything about her presence, the way she held herself, screamed danger. Draco could feel the malice radiating off her in waves, and even without knowing her, he instinctively understood that her intentions were deadly.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t here by accident. Her purpose was clear, and her target was unmistakable.

"Of course, she’s alive," Potter muttered under his breath, barely audible over the roaring of rapidly approaching flames. "Because why wouldn’t she be? Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

Draco felt the pieces click into place as Potter raised his voice, the realization dawning on him with a cold, unsettling clarity. “You know, I mourned your death,” he said, almost accusatorily, as if speaking the words might somehow make them less true.

It all made sense now. This woman had been mutilated by Potter during his desperate escape, an act that ultimately had led Potter to Draco’s front door. And now, she was back, eager to exact her revenge for the disfigurement that Potter had inflicted upon her.

“I suppose there is time for more of that,” Draco interjected, keeping his voice low and steady, despite the fear curling in his gut. It wasn’t her that scared him, though; it was the weapon she held, the cold metal gleaming with lethal intent.

“I suppose so,” Potter responded, his eyes flicking to Draco with an appreciative look that sent a thrill through Draco, the heat in his stomach coiling tighter.

“Harry. Potter.” The woman spat his name, her voice dripping with venomous hatred. “You didn’t think you would get out of here alive, did you?”

“Dr. Curie, I presume,” Tom’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, cold and sharp as ice. He stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding, a stark contrast to the fury simmering just beneath the surface. He emerged from behind Potter, his serpentine features illuminated by the flickering flames still licking at the walls.

Dr. Curie’s eyes widened, her bravado faltering for a brief moment as she took in Tom’s appearance with a mix of revulsion and horror. Her lips curled in disdain as she sneered, “Dear God in Heaven, you are an ugly creature.”

The absurdity of the situation nearly sent Draco over the edge. A hysterical giggle bubbled up in his throat at the sheer ridiculousness of it all—standing on the brink of disaster, and this woman was insulting Tom’s appearance.

“Thank you,” Tom grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming deadly in the faint light, “So are you. A courtesy of Harry, I presume?”

There was an unmistakable pride in Tom’s voice, and it made Draco’s stomach churn with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle.

“You, Harry, are a violent thing,” Tom murmured, his tone almost affectionate, and Draco saw Potter flinch, a slight shudder running through him as he shook his head at the warped sort of compliment. The heat in the air thickened, the flames crackling ominously around them.

“Shut up!” Dr. Curie screamed over the roaring of the flames, inching closer with every breath that Draco took. Her gun wavered slightly, her fingers twitching and Draco moved closer to Potter, prepared to tackle the man if need be.

“Can we,” she began, her voice shaky as she struggled to compose herself. “Can we please come back to the topic at hand? I am in control here. This is my revenge.”

“Revenge for mutilating Harry for a year of his life?” Tom’s voice gravelly, his gaze locking onto her with a dangerous intensity.

“Shut UP!” Curie screamed again, her voice shrill as she swung the gun around to point it directly at Tom. The Dark Lord didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Even without his magic, he radiated a deadly confidence and Draco began to understand what his husband had planned.

He could see the occasional twitching of Tom’s pale hands, the tick in his spouse’s temple as he attempted to draw on the magic, the slightest of a smile when he was increasingly successful.

Where Potter had used brute force when he had shattered the wards, Tom used careful precision. And while he worked, he drew the attention away from Draco, from Potter.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Miss Granger’s analysis, though grudgingly acknowledged, was undeniably accurate. The wards were unlike anything he had encountered before—a blend of Muggle ingenuity and magical interference that grated against his very being.

As he stood there, the oppressive hum of the wards thrumming in the air around him, Voldemort could feel the subtle vibrations pulsing through his body.

It was as if his magic was being stretched and twisted, forced into shapes that were alien and uncomfortable. The wards weren’t merely suppressing his magic; they were actively corrupting it, turning it into something unrecognizable, something he could barely grasp.

Miss Granger’s comparison to the Muggle phenomenon of “Havana Syndrome” wasn’t as far-fetched as it initially seemed.

The idea of an invisible, insidious force attacking the mind and body through imperceptible waves aligned with what he was experiencing now. The wards emitted a frequency that resonated with the very core of his magical being, distorting it, confusing it, until it felt like trying to hold onto water with bare hands.

Voldemort’s lip curled in disdain. Clever, yes—but these wards were not beyond his ability to overcome. Nothing was.

With painstaking effort, he began to gather the fragmented strands of magic that fluttered weakly through him. It was like trying to weave a tapestry out of thread that constantly threatened to unravel.

But Voldemort was nothing if not determined. He focused his will, his concentration absolute, as he carefully tugged at the loose threads of power, slowly pulling them back together.

All the while, he kept his attention on Dr. Curie, engaging her in a verbal duel that served two purposes: it kept her focus on him rather than on the others, and it bought him the time he needed to gather his strength.

“You’ve already lost, Doctor,” Voldemort drawled, his voice a smooth purr that belied the effort it took to maintain his composure. “Clinging to that crude weapon as though it could grant you any real power. Muggles and their toys—so quaint, so pitifully inadequate.”

Dr. Curie’s expression twisted; her eyes gleaming with hatred. “Tell me, Freakshow,” she hissed, refusing to engage with his accusations. “Do you want your family to spread your ashes? Or bury you?” Her laugh was a grating, nasty sound. “Oh wait, they’ll be dead along with you.”

“Fuck that,” Harry suddenly exploded, having held his tongue long enough it seemed, “Where is my daughter.”

Dr. Curie’s expression barely flickered at Harry's outburst, but her eyes darkened, her twisted grin widening. The gun in her hand moved slightly, trained back on Harry now with a chilling precision that made Voldemort’s blood boil. He had no use for this woman’s pathetic posturing, no tolerance for her empty threats.

But Harry—Harry had snapped.

“The only person who will be dead by the end of today is you,” Harry snarled, his voice laced with unfiltered rage. His hand clenched around his wand, useless though it might be in this moment, but it didn’t matter. The fire in his eyes, the raw, untampered power behind his words, was enough to make Voldemort pause and admire the sheer force of Harry’s will.

“So tell me now,” Harry continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl, “where is my daughter?”

Dr. Curie laughed again, the sound grating and vile. She took pleasure in the despair she was sowing. “Your daughter?” she sneered, her eyes narrowing. “She’s exactly where we want her to be. And you’ll never find her—not in time, anyway.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Voldemort felt the tension in the room spike, every nerve in his body alight with the urge to act. He could see the flicker of doubt in Harry’s eyes, the momentary hesitation, and he knew he couldn’t allow that seed of despair to take root.

“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “Don’t let her manipulate you. She thrives on fear, on pain. She’s trying to break you.”

But Harry’s gaze was fixed on Dr. Curie, his breath coming in sharp, angry bursts.

The fire that raged around them was no longer just a threat; it was a living, breathing monster, its flames licking at their feet, threatening to consume everything in its path. The heat was oppressive, stifling, every breath they took searing their lungs, the acrid smoke biting into their throats.

His skin began to sting, the flames’ proximity burning with an intensity that left his flesh tingling painfully. He knew that he had mere moments before the inferno would become unbearable, before the heat would start to sap the life from them.

Voldemort knew he had to act now, or risk his body perishing—Draco's along with him. The mere thought was intolerable. Who would resurrect him then? Who would bring Draco back?

He had always relied on his meticulous planning, his mastery of the dark arts, to secure his immortality, but what value would such immortality hold without Harry, without his Soul? The prospect of existing in a world where they no longer walked beside him was now unthinkable—a hollow eternity devoid of purpose.

“Where is she?” Harry demanded again, stepping forward, his fury barely contained.

Draco, who had been watching the exchange with growing concern, moved closer to Harry, his hand twitching toward him as if to pull him back. But Draco hesitated, knowing that in this moment, Harry was a storm unleashed—untouchable and unpredictable.

Dr. Curie tilted her head, her grin widening as if savoring the power she held over them. “Do you really think I’m going to tell you?” she taunted, her voice dripping with malice. “No, Harry. You’ll have to watch your precious family burn—just like everyone else.”

The last of Voldemort’s patience snapped.

The world around them seemed to warp, the flames flickering, the very air vibrating with the force of the magic Voldemort was drawing upon. And then, with a final, shuddering effort, he unleashed it. The wards shattered under the force of the combined magic, the oppressive weight lifting as if a dam had burst, and for a split second, everything stilled.

Dr. Curie had lunged, her gun aimed directly at Harry. Voldemort barely had time to register the movement before the sound of the gunshot had echoed through the room. Draco had already moved.

“No!” Harry screamed, his voice raw with terror as the bullet struck Draco, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Voldemort’s blood ran cold, time slowing as he watched Draco fall, the horror of it burning into his mind. Without thinking, he lunged forward, grabbing hold of Draco’s limp form, his other hand reaching for Harry.

And then, with a final, desperate pull of magic, he Apparated them away.

The last thing Voldemort saw before they vanished was Dr. Curie’s twisted grin, her hand outstretched as she grabbed hold of Draco’s arm, pulling herself into the vortex of magic just as they disappeared from the burning inferno.

Chapter Text

Malfoy had taken a bullet for him.

The thought pounded in Harry’s mind; a relentless drumbeat that refused to be silenced.

His hands, slick with Malfoy’s blood, pressed desperately against the man’s chest. The fabric of Malfoy’s once immaculate suit was soaked through, the dark material clinging to his body, heavy with blood. It was sticky, warm, and terrifyingly endless, as if the very life was slipping away between Harry’s trembling fingers.

Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps, his throat constricting as if it were being crushed by the weight of Malfoy’s shallow breathing. He wanted to scream, to shout, to beg Malfoy to stay with him, to fight, to live—but the words were trapped inside him, buried under a tidal wave of disbelief and panic.

Malfoy had taken a bullet for him.

The realization was overwhelming, almost too much to process.

Without hesitation, without a second thought, Draco Malfoy—the boy who had once made Harry’s life a living hell, the man who had been his rival, his enemy—had stepped in front of him, shielding him with his own body.

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully, nausea rising in his throat as he pressed down harder, his hands trembling with the effort to keep Malfoy’s heart beating. His own heart was a wild drum in his chest, frantic and desperate, as if trying to compensate for Malfoy’s slowing pulse.

“Stay with me,” Harry wanted to scream, but his voice was locked inside his throat. All he could do was focus on the pressure, on the rhythmic push of his hands against the wound, praying—no, begging—that it was enough.

Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once. A vicious snarl shattered the haze that had engulfed Harry, loud and feral, as hands—so many hands—pulled him away from Malfoy’s chest.

Harry fought against them, his instinct to protect, to save, to hold on overpowering any reason. But a young witch, her face a blur of determination, grabbed his own, her calloused hands holding him still as she forced him to look at her.

Her lips moved, urging him to do something—to what? To let go? To breathe? Her light green eyes shimmered vividly against the green robes she wore, and it struck Harry then, a distant memory piercing through his panic—St. Mungo’s.

They had crash-landed in the foyer of St. Mungo’s.

Harry’s mind fought to catch up, the chaotic blur of his thoughts struggling to make sense of the world around him. They had Apparated here—Voldemort, Malfoy, and himself—in a frantic bid to escape the flames and the collapsing building. And now, now Malfoy lay bleeding out on the cold floor, surrounded by healers, his life hanging by a thread.

The young witch’s voice finally cut through the fog, sharp and commanding. “We’ve got him, Mr. Potter. Let us do our job.”

Harry’s hands shook as he pulled them back, his fingers stained with Malfoy’s blood. He staggered to his feet, his eyes wide and unfocused, unable to tear his gaze away from the scene before him. Healers swarmed around Malfoy, casting spells, applying pressure, doing everything in their power to keep him alive.

And Harry—Harry could do nothing.

He stumbled back, the world tilting dangerously, as the reality of the situation settled over him like a heavy shroud.

Malfoy had taken a bullet for him, had put himself between Harry and death, and now he was the one at death’s door.

It took Harry a moment to realize that the vicious growl and the sea of screams weren’t just echoes of his own panic—they were real.

St. Mungo’s entrance foyer had descended into chaos, the once sterile and calm environment now a maelstrom of terror. Patients and visitors scrambled in all directions, their shrieks of fear echoing off the walls as they desperately tried to escape the horror before them. And at the center of it all, Voldemort—unleashed and unrestrained—had become the embodiment of everything Harry had fought against all these years.

Voldemort's hands—those pale, claw-like hands—were wrapped around Dr. Curie’s throat, his grip relentless. Blood trickled down her neck, the crimson stark against her skin, as his fingers dug into her flesh with a viciousness that made Harry’s stomach turn.

For a moment, all Harry could do was stare, frozen by the sight of the man who had haunted his nightmares for so long. The man who had caused so much pain, so much death.

Voldemort was wild, terrifying, the very essence of all that was dark and twisted in the world. His red eyes blazed with a fury that seemed endless, his face contorted into something inhuman, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine.

The room spun around him, his vision narrowing to the scene before him. Voldemort’s rage was a palpable force, one that threatened to consume everything in its path. And yet, despite the fear that gripped him, despite the instinct to run, Harry found himself rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

Perhaps it was out of a selfish need to keep alive the one person who could lead him to his daughter, or perhaps it was the pain Harry swore he could feel—the terror seeping through him that wasn’t his own.

Or maybe he had simply lost his mind, but he found himself lifting his wand, his hand almost steady as he took a step closer to Voldemort.

"Let her go, Voldemort," Harry ordered, the words firm despite the fear that coursed through him. The command in his voice was undercut by an edge of desperation, one that Harry knew he couldn’t afford to show. “You will get your revenge, I promise you. I swear it to you.”

He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable backlash—for Voldemort to turn on him, to lash out for such public defiance. But the Dark Lord’s red eyes remained fixed on Dr. Curie, his grip on her throat unwavering.

Harry swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. “Let her go, please,” he added, the plea slipping out before he could stop it. “I need her.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hang in the balance, the air thick with tension. Harry could feel the weight of his words pressing down on him, the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He didn’t know if Voldemort would listen, if the man was even capable of such a thing in this state. But he had to try—if not for himself, then for the chance to find his daughter, to save what was left of his family.

Voldemort’s grip on Dr. Curie’s throat remained tight, his eyes narrowing as he processed Harry’s words. The room seemed to shrink around them, the chaos fading into the background as the two men locked eyes.

And then, slowly, as if considering the gravity of the request, Voldemort’s fingers began to loosen. The tension in his body didn’t ease, but the claws that had threatened to end Dr. Curie’s life withdrew slightly, allowing her to gasp for breath.

Harry took another step closer, his wand still raised, he didn’t dare lower it. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words barely audible over the sound of Dr. Curie’s labored breaths. But he knew better than to think this was over—knew that Voldemort’s wrath was far from sated.

“You will have your revenge,” Harry promised again, his voice stronger this time. “But we need her alive. For now.”

Voldemort’s gaze shifted between Curie and Harry, the fury in his eyes still burning bright. But there was something else there too—something raw and conflicted, a flicker of vulnerability that Harry had never seen before.

“Do not test me, Harry,” Voldemort finally hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “My patience is not infinite.”

Harry nodded, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly as he lowered his wand. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his tone careful, measured. “But this isn’t the time for her death. Not yet.”

He could feel it again, that sharp, aching pain that twisted in his gut, an emotion he knew wasn’t his own. It was raw, desperate, something Harry had never expected to associate with Voldemort. Yet there it was, undeniable and unsettling, creeping into his awareness like an unwelcome intruder.

And then, something else—a strange, almost overwhelming urge to soothe that pain, to offer comfort to the very man who had caused so much suffering in his life.

The sensation was foreign, utterly wrong, and yet it was there, simmering beneath his skin like a persistent itch he couldn’t ignore. The need to reach out, to touch Voldemort and somehow share the burden of that pain, gnawed at him, confusing and terrifying in its intensity.

But Harry knew better. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, forcing himself to resist the treacherous impulse. A wave of disgust washed over him at the thought of what he had almost done—what he had almost allowed himself to feel.

He took a step back, not just to distance himself from Voldemort, but to push away the dangerous desires that had surfaced within him—desires that had no place in this world.

“She’ll get what she deserves,” Harry said instead, his voice steady, though he didn’t hope it would be enough to diffuse the pain and fury.

For a moment, Voldemort didn’t move. Harry held his breath, waiting for the Dark Lord to make his decision.

Then, with a snarl of disgust, Voldemort flung Dr. Curie aside, her body crumpling to the floor like a discarded rag doll. The impact was brutal, but she was still alive, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

“Take her to the Aurors,” Voldemort ordered, his voice trembling with barely contained rage and hatred. The healers hesitated, clearly unnerved by the raw intensity in his tone, but they eventually nodded, moving with deliberate caution as they approached Dr. Curie to secure her for transport.

As they lifted her limp form, a young mediwitch, her face pale and drawn, stepped forward. She bowed deeply, her eyes averted as if she couldn’t bear to meet Voldemort’s gaze. “My Lord,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “if you would please follow me.”

Voldemort didn’t respond immediately. His red eyes flicked to the mediwitch, assessing her with a gaze so intense that it made her flinch. For a moment, it seemed as though he might ignore her entirely, his attention still locked on the retreating figures of the healers and their prisoner.

But then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Voldemort turned his full attention to the young witch. His expression was unreadable, his fury barely leashed beneath the surface. “Lead the way,” he said, his voice cold and commanding.

The mediwitch bowed again, even more deeply this time, before turning on her heel to guide him, and Voldemort followed, a dark storm cloud ready to unleash its fury.

Harry stood frozen in place, caught in a moment of indecision. He could already feel the onlookers closing in, curious eyes fixed on him, but their presence only amplified the disorientation swirling inside him. Where were his sons? Where was Malfoy? The questions tumbled through his mind, each one more frantic than the last, but the answers felt elusive, just out of reach.

He felt utterly lost.

For a moment, Harry considered following Voldemort, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the strange, unnameable pull that had begun to take root inside him, or maybe it was simply the need to understand what came next.

But even as he thought about it, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, draining the resolve from his limbs.

With a sigh that felt like it came from the very depths of his soul, Harry made a decision. He turned away from the path that Voldemort had taken, away from the growing crowd of onlookers. He needed to find his sons first. That was something he could focus on, something he could control in this spiraling madness.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Both boys were sleeping when Harry finally found their room—or rooms, rather.

The section was clearly designed for people of importance, with its two private hospital rooms, a shared bath, and a cozy sitting room nestled between.

The air was thick with the scent of potions and the faint hum of magical wards, a reminder of the place’s purpose, but the soft light and muted colors gave it an oddly homey feel.

Albus and James lay still and small in their hospital beds, their chests rising and falling with the slow, deep breaths of sleep. Harry’s heart ached at the sight of them, so fragile, so vulnerable, but there was relief too.

Someone—he wasn’t sure who—had made sure they were comfortable, tucking them in with plush, warm blankets that wrapped around their tiny forms like a protective cocoon.

Harry took a moment to just stand there, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the peacefulness of the scene. It was a stark contrast to the chaos and violence of the day, a fragile oasis of calm in the middle of the storm.

He stepped closer to Albus’s bed first, the soft padding of his footsteps barely making a sound on the floor. Albus’s face was pale, even in sleep, and there were dark smudges under his eyes, a testament to the ordeal he had been through. Harry reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently brushed a lock of hair from his son’s forehead. Albus stirred slightly but didn’t wake, his small body curling deeper into the warmth of the blankets.

Next, Harry moved to James’s bed. His oldest son looked no less weary, his face slack with exhaustion, his hands clutching the edge of the blanket as if it was a lifeline.

Harry’s chest tightened as he watched him, memories of James’s usual boundless energy clashing painfully with the stillness of the boy before him. He reached out again, resting his hand lightly on James’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath his fingers.

For a long moment, Harry just stood there, his hand on James’s chest, his eyes flicking back and forth between his two boys.

They were safe.

For now, at least, they were safe. It was a fragile safety, one that could be shattered at any moment, but it was something. And in the midst of everything else, that was what he clung to.

“They are going to be okay,” Hermione whispered, her voice soft but firm, a lifeline.

Harry turned slightly, meeting her gaze. She looked as tired and worn out as he felt, dark circles under her eyes and her shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but there was a flicker of relief in her eyes at the sight of him.

“They will need therapy,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “A lot of it, probably for the rest of their lives. But they will be okay, Harry. We’ll make sure of it.”

Harry swallowed, trying to digest her words. Therapy. The rest of their lives. It sounded so…final, like a life sentence for something they had never deserved.

“You should go to the Manor and rest, ‘Mione. See the girls,” he suggested, his voice rough with the strain of holding everything together. He could see the toll this was taking on her, the cracks in her armor that she was desperately trying to hide.

But she was already shaking her head before he even finished the sentence. “No,” she said firmly, as if the idea was absurd. “I brought the girls to Molly.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Hermione hadn’t set foot in the Burrow since she had broken things off with Ron, hadn’t seen most of the Weasleys in all that time—except for Ginny, of course.

The rift between them had been deep, painful, something that none of them had ever really healed from. But now… now she had taken her girls there, to the one place she had avoided for so long.

“You…” Harry started, unsure of what to say. The shock must have shown on his face because Hermione gave him a tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I didn’t know where else to go. Ron suggested it,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And… and they’re family. No matter what happened between us, they’re still family. Molly—Molly took them in without a second thought.”

Harry nodded slowly. There were so many things they had never talked about, so many wounds that had never healed, but now wasn’t the time for that. Now, all that mattered was that Hermione was here, standing beside him, fighting for his boys just as fiercely as she always had.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “For everything.”

Hermione nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll get through this, Harry,” she whispered. “Together, we’ll get through this.”

“How…” Harry’s voice broke, as he looked back at James’s peaceful form. “How is their health?”

“Astoria says they’re malnourished and severely scarred, but with the right potions and salves, they’ll recover. It’s going to take time, but they’ll heal.”

“I should have found them sooner,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with regret. His eyes were locked on James, taking in the rise and fall of his son’s chest, the only reassurance that he was still here, still breathing.

“How?” Hermione asked softly, her hand coming to rest on his arm. She gently turned him to face her, her gaze steady and unwavering. “How, Harry? You were trapped, being tortured yourself. You did everything you could, and more.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, the self-reproach seeping through him like poison. “It wasn’t enough. I should have—”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, her voice firm but filled with warmth. “You can’t carry this burden alone. I am so proud of you. So thankful that you were willing to ask for help. From me, from Malfoy, even from Voldemort. That’s what saved them. That’s what brought you all back.”

Harry’s eyes finally met hers, the weight of her words slowly sinking in. He wanted to argue, to insist that he could have done more, should have done more. But the truth was, he had asked for help—something he had never been good at—and that had made all the difference.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “For being there. For not giving up on me.”

Hermione’s grip on his arm tightened, a silent reminder that she was there, that she wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re not alone, Harry. None of us are. We’ll survive this.”

Harry remained silent, a gnawing worry eating away at him. The truth was, he wasn’t sure they would all survive this—not in the way that mattered. The image of Malfoy, bleeding and unconscious, flashed in his mind, demanding attention he didn’t want to give.

“Malfoy took a bullet for me,” Harry finally said, his voice low, as though admitting it was something to be ashamed of. The words tasted strange, almost foreign, like they didn’t quite belong to him.

“I know,” Hermione replied, her tone calm and steady, with no hint of accusation. Harry looked up at her, surprised by the lack of judgment in her voice. “I got to witness Voldemort losing his shit for lack of better words. Threatening everyone with death if they didn’t fix him. He threw a tea set – it was full too. Thank goodness for Astoria.”

Harry blinked, trying to reconcile the image of Voldemort—cold, ruthless, and calculating—with the one Hermione had just described. The idea of the Dark Lord, the most feared wizard in history, nearly unraveling because Draco Malfoy had been hurt, felt surreal.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” Hermione continued, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. “Seeing him like that. It’s hard to imagine him feeling anything… human.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I never thought I’d see the day Voldemort would care so much about someone else.”

“People can change, Harry,” Hermione said gently, her eyes softening as she spoke. “Even someone like him.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he believed that—he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe it. But the memory of Voldemort’s raw, unguarded expression as he looked at Malfoy was hard to shake. Maybe people could change. Maybe Voldemort could change. But even if he could, that didn’t mean Harry had to trust him.

“I don’t know how to feel about any of this,” Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” she said. “Just take it one step at a time. We’ll deal with everything else when we have to.”

Harry nodded, though he still felt a deep unease settling in his chest. Malfoy had taken a bullet for him—without hesitation, without question—and Voldemort had been willing to tear the world apart to save another human being.

It was a truth he wasn’t ready to confront, a reality he wasn’t sure he could accept.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Albus hated hospitals. He had hated them even before Mum had died.

This one was different from the cold, scary places he remembered; the one he had just left and the one he had visited when he had broken his arm at age six. There were wizards and witches everywhere, using magic for everything, and it should have been cool, but it wasn’t. Not when Papa wasn’t beside him, holding his hand, and Mum was gone.

The Nightmare man was pacing, and it made Albus’s stomach feel all twisted up. Without his snake mask, the man looked less like a monster and more like a person—kind of pretty, actually, but in a way that made him even scarier.

His eyes were still angry, burning red like fire, and that was worse than the mask because that made him real and real people were scarier than nightmares. Nightmares couldn’t hurt you. Real people could.

So, Albus stayed out of the way, sitting on a sofa in the sitting room while James tried to warm up his cold, shaking hands. James’s hands were shaking too, and he kept looking over at the door that Papa had left through. Every time Albus asked when Papa would be back, someone—mostly Aunt Hermione—would say “soon.”

But Albus wasn’t dumb. He was ten, and even though he had missed his birthday this year, he was smart, like someone who had lived a whole decade. He could see how everyone was acting.

Aunt Hermione was chewing on a strand of her hair—something Albus had never seen her do before.

The lady with the blonde and black hair tapped her shoe against the floor in a jittery, uneven rhythm that seemed to echo through the room. Her face was pale, and her lips were pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying not to cry.

And the Nightmare man, well, he just kept pacing, his expression a storm, like he was on the verge of exploding—or maybe he wanted to make everyone else explode instead.

He glanced at the Nightmare man—Voldemort.

The name felt heavy and wrong in his head, and Albus wasn’t sure he liked thinking it, let alone saying it. The man cared about Papa, though. Albus could see it in the way Voldemort’s eyes softened a little when he looked at Papa, the way Mum’s had whenever Papa had said something important or silly.

Albus shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in his stomach. It was like something cold and heavy had settled there, and no matter how much he tried to distract himself, it wouldn’t go away. The way everyone was acting, the tension in the air—it made him feel like something bad was going to happen, or maybe it already had.

He glanced at James, who was still rubbing his hands together, trying to get warmth into them. James had always been the strong one, the brave one, but right now, he just looked scared. And if James was scared, then Albus knew things were really bad.

The door that Papa had disappeared through a while ago was still closed, and it felt like hours had passed since he’d left. Albus kept staring at it, willing it to open, willing Papa to come back with news that everything was okay—that they’d found Lily, that they could all go home now, and things would be like they used to be.

But the door stayed shut.

Aunt Hermione’s voice broke the silence, though it was softer than usual, almost like she was talking to herself. “They are going to be okay,” she whispered, her hand clutching a strand of her hair so tightly that her knuckles were pale. “They’re going to be okay.”

Albus didn’t know if she was talking about Papa, or Lily, or someone else, but he hoped she was right.

Lily. He hadn’t seen her in forever. James said maybe Lily was with Mum now, but that didn’t make Albus feel better at all. He didn’t want to believe Lily was gone. He was her big brother, and he would know if something like that had happened to her.

What would happen to them if Papa couldn’t find Lily?

“Do you think Papa’s okay?” Albus whispered, his voice trembling. It was the first time he had dared to voice the question that had been gnawing at him.

James looked at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “But I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

Albus nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He wanted to be brave, like James usually was, but it was hard when everything felt so wrong.

The door creaked open suddenly, and every head in the room snapped towards it. Albus’ heart leaped into his throat as he watched, hoping, praying that Papa would walk through it, telling them everything was going to be okay.

But it wasn’t Papa. It was a healer, her face drawn and serious, and the heavy feeling in Albus’ stomach only deepened. The room fell into a tense silence as she stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over everyone, finally landing on Voldemort.

“They’ve stabilized him,” she said, her voice professional, but it sounded as if she was trying hard not to cry. “But it’s still critical, Tom. We’re doing everything we can.”

Voldemort’s pacing stopped abruptly. “What exactly does that mean, Astoria?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“It means we need time,” Astoria replied calmly, not caring that Voldemort was glaring at her. “Time and care. We’ll transfer him here as soon as he wakes. Draco is in good hands.”

Draco. She was talking about Malfoy—the man who was married to Voldemort. The one who had been hurt.

Albus wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was glad the pale man was in good hands—really, he was—but it didn’t stop the knot of worry in his chest. It didn’t stop him from wanting to ask the one question that had been burning on his mind since they had arrived.

“Where’s Papa?” Albus whispered, his voice almost drowned out by the silence in the room.

Astoria looked at him, her expression softening as she met his eyes. But before she could answer, Voldemort spoke, his voice cold and cutting through the air like a knife.

“Harry is handling things,” he said, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

Albus didn’t know if he was just that tired, or scared enough, but he started crying. At first, silent tears welled up and dropped down his cheeks, but then the tears came faster, until sobs finally shook his small shoulders.

“Tom!” The lady with blonde and black hair’s voice sliced through his hiccups, stern and chastising. “That is not how you talk to a child, especially not one as traumatized as Mr. Potter’s children.”

She moved toward Albus quickly, her expression softening as she knelt in front of him. Her hands were warm as she cupped his face, wiping away the tears with gentle fingers. “Shh, it’s alright,” she whispered soothingly, her voice a stark contrast to the harshness in Voldemort’s. “You’re safe here, and your Papa will be back soon. I promise.”

Albus sniffled, trying to calm down, but the fear and worry were too much. He just wanted his Papa, and nothing anyone said could change that.

“I apologize, Albus Potter,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the air, startling Albus so much that he stopped crying for a moment, blinking up at the man in shock.

It wasn’t just the words themselves—it was the way they were spoken. There was no warmth in Voldemort’s tone, no softness, but there was something that felt almost… real.

An apology from the Nightmare man was the last thing Albus had expected, and for a moment, it left him speechless.

The woman with the blonde and black hair looked just as surprised, her eyebrows raising slightly as she glanced at Voldemort. Even Aunt Hermione and the Healer lady stared at the Nightmare man with their mouths wide open.

Voldemort’s expression remained cold, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of understanding or maybe frustration, that made Albus feel less alone in his fear.

Albus nodded slowly, the shock of the apology still sinking in, and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just whispered, “Thank you,” even though the words felt strange on his tongue.

The woman smiled gently at him, and then, to Albus’s surprise, she reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly. “Your Papa will be back soon,” she promised again, her voice calm and steady. “And we’ll make sure everything is alright.”

Voldemort sighed, as though all this took an enormous amount of his energy and finally seated himself into a chair, far enough from Albus that he felt safe.

“Your Father and your Uncle Ron are interrogating an enemy combatant regarding intel on your sister.” Voldemort wasn’t looking at him as he spoke.

Albus blinked up at Voldemort, his confusion clear. The words sounded important—big and serious—but they didn’t make any sense to him. What did “intel” even mean?

He could feel the words buzzing around in his head like a swarm of angry bees, but none of them were landing anywhere that made sense.

The woman beside him, noticing his bewilderment, leaned in a little closer, her voice soft and soothing. “What Tom means,” she said gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand, “is that your Papa is talking to someone who might know where Lily is. He’s trying to find out more so he can bring her home.”

That made more sense, but it didn’t do much to ease the knot of fear twisting in Albus’s stomach. The idea of Papa talking to some scary person, trying to get information, sounded like something out of one of those detective stories he’d seen on the telly. It didn’t sound like something that should involve his Papa, and it definitely didn’t sound safe.

Voldemort watched him, red eyes studying Albus with an intensity that made him feel small. There was no softness in that gaze, there was concern, but buried deeply beneath the layers of coldness that seemed to make up the Nightmare man.

“Your uncle, and your father, are very good at what they do, Albus,” Voldemort added, his tone measured and deliberate. “They will find her.”

Albus nodded slowly, still clutching the lady’s hand like a lifeline. He wanted to believe them, wanted to hold onto the idea that Papa was out there doing something brave and important to bring Lily home. But all he could think about was how alone he felt right now, how everything seemed so big and scary, and how much he just wanted to see his Papa again.

The woman gave his hand another reassuring squeeze, and then, with a gentle smile, she turned her gaze back to Voldemort. “Tom, perhaps it would help if you explained things a little more clearly?” she suggested, her tone holding a note of gentle reproach.

Voldemort’s expression flickered with something like annoyance, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he sighed again, as though this entire conversation was taking more out of him than he cared to admit, and leaned back in his chair, eyes locked onto Albus.

“Your father is asking questions,” Voldemort began, his voice slow and deliberate, as if he were choosing each word carefully. “He’s making sure that the person who took your sister tells him where she is. And once he has the answers he needs, he’ll come back.”

Albus nodded again, feeling a little more grounded but still uneasy. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Papa doing all of that—whatever it meant. But if it meant finding Lily, then maybe it was okay. Maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Perhaps Harry hadn’t betrayed Ginny after all.

The thought had settled in Ron’s mind earlier that day – or maybe yesterday – solidifying as he watched his former friend, once his brother in all but blood, make a vow of vengeance so fierce, so absolute, that it had sent a chill down Ron’s spine.

There was a darkness that had taken root in Harry, a malevolence that clung to him like a second skin. It was a far cry from the boy Ron had grown up with—the boy who had faced down impossible odds with nothing but sheer stubbornness and a heart too big for his own good.

But even through that darkness, through the cold, unyielding rage that now defined his every move, Ron could still see a glimmer of the Harry he had known. The Harry who loved so fiercely that it bordered on reckless. The Harry who would do anything, sacrifice himself, to protect the people he cared about.

The room they were in was cold, the stone walls amplifying every sound, every breath. Dr. Curie sat before them, her eyes filled with a defiance that made Ron’s blood boil. She was a small woman, beautiful in appearance, but the air around her was thick with the weight of her crimes.

The way she looked at Harry—like she was somehow better than him, like she was in control even now—made Ron want to lash out, to wipe that smug look off her face.

But he held back, because this wasn’t about him. This was about Harry, about Lily, about getting the answers they needed.

Harry hadn’t said much since they’d brought her in. He didn’t need to. The silence was more unnerving than any words could have been, a silence that stretched taut between them, ready to snap at any moment.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. The room was dark, shadows clinging to the corners, and in the dim light, Harry’s face looked almost hollow, like he was being eaten away from the inside. His eyes were fixed on Dr. Curie, unblinking, and Ron couldn’t tell what was going through his mind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Where is she?” Harry’s voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it, a dangerous undercurrent that made the hairs on the back of Ron’s neck stand on end.

Dr. Curie didn’t answer immediately. She just stared at Harry, a slow smile spreading across her face, like she was enjoying the game, like she thought she had already won.

Ron’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. He wanted to hit her, to wipe that smile off her face, but he knew better. He had to stay focused, had to stay calm. For Lily. For Ginny.

“Do you really think,” Dr. Curie finally spoke, her voice dripping with condescension, “that you can scare me into talking? You’ve already lost, Potter. You’re too late.”

Something in Harry’s expression shifted, something dark and dangerous, and for a moment, Ron thought he might snap. But Harry didn’t move. He just kept staring at her, his eyes boring into hers with a fury so intense that Ron could almost feel it, like a physical presence in the room.

“Where is she?” Harry repeated, his voice still low, still calm, but there was a deadly edge to it now, a promise of what would happen if she didn’t answer.

Ron found himself holding his breath, waiting, hoping.

“Drop,” Dr. Curie popped the word, her tone dripping with perverse satisfaction as she watched Harry, a twisted smile playing on her lips. “Dead.”

It was like she was daring him, taunting him, taking pleasure in the way Harry’s entire body trembled with barely contained rage. The words hung in the air, a deliberate challenge, and Ron felt the tension in the room snap taut, the atmosphere thickening with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then Harry moved.

It was so swift, so precise, that Ron barely registered it. One second, Harry was standing there, still as stone, and the next, he had crossed the distance between them in a blur of motion, his hand wrapping around Dr. Curie’s throat with a grip so tight, Ron was sure he could snap her neck with just a flick of his wrist.

The chair Dr. Curie was sitting in skidded back with the force of Harry’s advance, slamming into the wall behind her. Her eyes widened in surprise, the smug confidence draining from her face as she realized just how close she was to death. For the first time since they’d brought her in, Ron saw fear flicker in her eyes.

Harry’s face was inches from hers, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts. His knuckles were white as they clenched around her throat, his hand trembling with the effort it took not to squeeze tighter, not to end her right then and there.

“Where is she?” Harry hissed, his voice a dangerous whisper, laced with a venom that made Ron’s blood run cold. “Where is my daughter?”

Dr. Curie struggled to breathe, her eyes bulging as she tried to pry Harry’s hand from her throat, but it was no use. Harry was beyond reason now, beyond anything but the need to find Lily, to bring her home.

Ron took a step forward, his instinct to interfere, to pull Harry back before he did something they couldn’t undo, but he stopped himself. This wasn’t his fight. Not now. Not when Harry was so close to getting the answers they needed.

“Tell me,” Harry demanded, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his eyes locked onto hers with a ferocity that was terrifying to behold. “Or I swear to God, I will end you.”

Dr. Curie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was choking, her face turning an alarming shade of red as she clawed at Harry’s hand, her nails digging into his skin, drawing blood. But Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t loosen his grip. He was beyond mercy now, beyond anything but the singular focus of saving his daughter.

Ron watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as the life began to drain from Dr. Curie’s eyes. This was it. This was the moment they had been waiting for. But instead of giving in, instead of surrendering the information they so desperately needed, Dr. Curie did the unthinkable.

She smiled.

It was a weak, pitiful thing, more a grimace than anything else, but it was there—a final act of defiance, a last stand against the man who she hated more than anything.

And with that smile, Ron knew.

She wasn’t going to tell them. She would rather die than give them what they wanted.

“Harry!” Ron’s voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of rage that had enveloped his friend. “Harry, stop! She’s not worth it!”

Ron watched in alarm as Harry’s grip on Dr. Curie remained firm, though his knuckles had lost their deathly white hue. The doctor’s labored breaths filled the room, harsh and grating, but Harry showed no sign of releasing her entirely.

Instead, Harry’s expression twisted with grim determination, his breath still coming in ragged gasps, but his eyes—those usually bright green eyes—had darkened, shadowed by something cold and unyielding.

“You’re right,” Harry growled, his voice chillingly calm, tinged with a darkness that made Ron’s stomach twist. “She isn’t worth it.”

For a moment, Ron felt a flicker of hope that Harry was going to step back, that he was going to pull away and let reason prevail.

But that hope was short-lived.

Ron’s breath caught in his throat when he realized Harry’s grip hadn’t loosened out of mercy—there was no mercy left in Harry. The shift in pressure was deliberate, controlled, to keep Dr. Curie conscious and aware, but nothing more.

Her throat convulsed against Harry’s hand, her breath rattling as she struggled to draw in air. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable, and Ron could still see the faint glimmer of triumph behind it—a twisted satisfaction that Harry was about to cross a line he could never come back from.

Harry’s gaze never wavered; his expression set in a mask of cold resolve. Then, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant yet inevitable, Harry rolled his shoulder, a small, calculated movement.

Ron barely had time to process what was happening before Harry’s voice, low and steady, echoed through the room like a death knell.

“Legilimens.”

It wasn’t a shout, nor was it a whisper. It was an incantation, delivered with an icy precision that sent a shiver down Ron’s spine.

The effect was immediate. Dr. Curie’s eyes went wide, her body jerking in Harry’s grip as if she had been electrocuted. A strangled cry escaped her lips, but it was cut short, her breath hitching as her mind was laid bare before Harry.

Ron’s blood ran cold as he watched Harry dive into Dr. Curie’s mind, not gently or kind but tearing and ruthless. Harry’s face was a mask of concentration, his eyes narrowed in focus as he rifled through her thoughts, searching for the answers she had refused to give.

Ron could see the strain in Harry’s expression, the furrow of his brow, the tightness in his jaw as he pushed deeper, searching, demanding to know where Lily was.

Dr. Curie’s remaining eye rolled back in her head, her body trembling violently as Harry’s will bore down on her. Her resistance, once so fierce, began to crumble under the relentless assault of Harry’s mind. The room was filled with the sound of her gasping breaths, punctuated by the occasional whimper as she tried, and failed, to shield herself from Harry’s intrusion.

Ron felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat as he watched, torn between horror and a desperate hope that this would be the key to finding Lily. But this—this was not the Harry he knew. The Harry he had grown up with, the one who had fought so hard for what was right, would never have resorted to something like this.

But then again, this was about Lily. Harry’s daughter. Ron’s niece. And Ron knew, deep down, that there was nothing Harry wouldn’t do to bring her back. And that Ron wouldn’t stand in his way.

It seemed to take an eternity before Harry shoved himself away, dropping his hand from the nearly unconscious woman. His breathing was heavy, labored, and his entire body trembled with exhaustion.

Ron reached out instinctively, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before he caught himself, unsure if touch would be welcome, or if Ron was even ready to provide that kind of comfort. The hesitation hung in the air, thick and heavy, as Ron watched his old friend struggle to steady himself.

Dr. Curie slumped in her chair, her body limp and her breaths shallow. Her eye was closed, her face twisted in pain, as if the weight of Harry’s intrusion into her mind had left her shattered.

Harry’s voice broke the silence, empty and hollow. “Nothing,” he whispered, the word barely more than a breath. “She knows nothing.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort was furious, a walking embodiment of dark, seething rage that clung to every room, every hallway he entered like a toxic fog. Ever the survivor, Harry had instinctively kept his distance, carefully maneuvering through the storm of Voldemort’s wrath.

The target of Voldemort’s ire was ever-shifting: one moment, it was the mediwitches who dared to move at anything less than breakneck speed; the next, it was the editors at the Daily Prophet, whose twisted narratives had already begun to circulate.

Not even the poor Aurors who had been part of the rescue mission were spared from his lashing fury. And when a young witch mistakenly brought coffee instead of tea, she fled the room in tears, her mistake nearly a death sentence.

But what struck Harry the most wasn’t how Voldemort lashed out at everyone else—it was the way that anger seemed to coil inward, turning viciously upon itself.

Voldemort would never admit to such things, of course, but Harry could feel it through the bond that connected them, raw and exposed like a fresh wound. The emotions bled through into Harry’s mind, leaving him vulnerable to feelings that weren’t entirely his own.

There was a bitterness there, a sharp, cutting edge of guilt that sliced through the rage. The unsettling sensation of it seeping into his own thoughts left Harry disoriented, struggling to distinguish where Voldemort’s torment ended and his own began.

He could feel Voldemort’s self-loathing—a dark, corrosive force that gnawed relentlessly at the edges of his mind. The fear that, despite all his power, he had failed where it mattered most. That fear was so palpable, so visceral, that it nearly stole Harry’s breath away.

Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses had begun to dig in, the weight of exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

He should have gone home. Should have taken the boys back to the Manor and let himself collapse into the bed that seemed to call his name with every passing moment. But Malfoy’s life hung precariously on a thread, Lily was missing without any lead, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself to leave, to even consider searching for the nearest Apparition point.

The stark white of the walls assaulted his eyes, their brightness a cruel mockery of hope. The harsh light cast everything in washed-out shades, turning the room into a tableau of lifelessness.

Malfoy lay motionless in the hospital bed, impossibly small and fragile beneath the crisp white sheets. The sight tugged at something deep within Harry, a feeling he wasn’t ready to examine too closely. His gaze kept drifting back to Malfoy’s still form, drawn by some magnetic pull he couldn’t quite resist.

The newspapers in Harry’s hands offered no solace. The day-old paper was creased and wrinkled, worn from the countless times he had thumbed through it, the ink smudged where his fingers had lingered, tracing the same lines over and over.

The headlines were all the same, their bold letters blaring nothing but empty noise: “Golden Boy Returns.”

The news of his sighting had spread like wildfire through dry brush, igniting all of Wizarding Britain within hours. The whispers had turned into a roaring frenzy, everyone buzzing with curiosity and gossip.

Speculations, mostly—wild theories about why the Savior had finally returned and, even more curiously, why the Dark Lord’s consort had been seen dragging the Boy Who Lived into an alleyway before whisking him away.

Some of the articles were almost comically sensational, concocting tales of a decade-long conspiracy where Malfoy and Voldemort had allegedly kept Harry Potter imprisoned in the Malfoy dungeons for some nefarious, undisclosed purpose.

Others leaned shamelessly into melodrama, spinning stories of star-crossed lovers, finally reunited after years of secrecy, their forbidden affair hidden from the Dark Lord’s all-seeing eyes.
But beneath the layers of conjecture and gossip lay a more insidious undercurrent, one that Harry couldn’t easily dismiss: the relentless scrutiny that accompanied being in the public eye, the crushing weight of expectations he had never truly escaped.

He didn’t even want to glance at today’s papers—he knew they would dissect his role in the Consort’s injury with ruthless precision.

With a weary sigh, Harry let the newspaper slip from his fingers, the soft rustle it made as it hit the floor echoing loudly in the otherwise silent room. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment, as if the simple act could block out the cacophony of thoughts that swirled in his mind.

“Any change?”

The voice, clipped yet quiet, sliced through the stillness of the room, jolting Harry from his reverie. Or perhaps he had drifted into sleep—judging by the position of the clock hand on the wall, it was certainly possible.

Blinking away the haze of exhaustion, Harry lifted his gaze to the doorway, where Voldemort stood, his expression a carefully constructed mask of tightly controlled anger.

Harry shook his head, the movement small and heavy with weariness. “Nothing yet,” he murmured, matching Voldemort's quiet tone. “Astoria says it’s just a matter of time, but... she can’t say how much.”

Voldemort’s gaze flickered to Malfoy’s still form, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying the storm of emotions beneath his composed exterior. For a moment, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on Malfoy with a fierce intensity that sent a pang through Harry’s chest.

Then, with a breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world, Voldemort crossed the room, his movements deliberate, almost heavy, as if each step was an effort to maintain his composure.

Harry watched, disbelieving, as Voldemort stood at the foot of Malfoy’s bed. The Dark Lord’s unsettling red eyes were locked on Malfoy’s pale, unmoving form, a fierce intensity burning in them that Harry had only ever seen in the heat of battle. It was a look that spoke of desperation, a ferocity that clashed with the usually cold, calculated demeanor of the man.

It was strange—unsettling, even—to see Voldemort like this.

Frightened wasn’t a word Harry had ever thought he’d associate with the man who had terrorized the wizarding world for decades.

But now, he could see it—etched into the hard set of Voldemort’s jaw, in the way his hands clenched and unclenched as if grappling with some unseen force. And most of all, it was there in his gaze, the way it lingered on Malfoy’s still form, as though sheer will alone could coax him back to consciousness.

“Umm… You should rest,” Harry suggested, though his voice came out more tentative than he had intended. The words felt awkward, foreign on his tongue—offering support to Voldemort of all people was something he could never have imagined doing.

Voldemort’s eyes snapped to him, and Harry nearly recoiled under the burning red intensity of that gaze. It was as if all the anger, fear, and frustration of the past few hours were concentrated in those eyes, threatening to consume him. But he held his ground, refusing to shrink back or apologize.

“I will rest when he wakes,” Voldemort replied, each word clipped and final, leaving no room for argument.

“Right, yes,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as the awkwardness settled in again, heavy and suffocating. He had no idea what else to say, how to navigate this strange new dynamic between them.

Exhaustion weighed down on him, making every bone in his body ache with the desire to collapse. But he knew better than to suggest rest again—Voldemort wouldn’t listen, and truthfully, Harry couldn’t bring himself to push the issue when he knew he wouldn’t take his own advice either.

The memories of the last few days looped endlessly in his mind—images of the burning building, the desperate chase through the maze of corridors, and the gut-wrenching sound of the gunshot that had brought Malfoy down.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts that clung to him like shadows. But it was impossible to escape them when the evidence of their shared trauma lay right before him, teetering on the edge between life and death.

Voldemort’s voice broke the silence. It was a murmur, almost lost in the magical hum of the hospital room. “He must wake up. He must.”

Voldemort hadn’t budged from his vigil at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Malfoy. It was a sight that left Harry grappling with confusion—this was not the Dark Lord he had spent years fighting.

This was someone else, someone who seemed capable of care, even love. The realization struck Harry harder than any curse, making him question everything he thought he had known about the man before him.

“I know,” Harry replied, his voice softer, the fatigue of the past days creeping into his tone. “He will. We just have to give him time.”

Harry didn’t know if it was the right thing to say, but it was all he had. In the face of such overwhelming uncertainty, what else could he offer?

They stood together, lost in their own spirals of thought, bound by the desperate hope that Malfoy would wake up—that somehow, against all odds, he would pull through.

As the minutes dragged on, with the walls of St. Mungo’s seeming to close in around them, a new fear began to gnaw at Harry.

What if Malfoy didn’t wake up? What would become of Voldemort, of this precarious peace they had found, if they lost Draco Malfoy?

The thought lingered, dark and unbidden, casting a shadow over the bright room. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were standing on the edge of something—something that could either solidify this fragile alliance or shatter it completely.

“I’m going to check on my boys,” Harry whispered, the words feeling like lead on his tongue. It was both a reason to leave the room and a genuine need to see his sons—to reassure himself that they were still safe, still untouched by the darkness that lingered around them. If only Lily was with them too.

Voldemort didn’t respond, didn’t so much as flicker an acknowledgment, and that silence was more unnerving than any words could have been.

Harry’s eyes lingered on the Dark Lord, noting the way his gaze remained fixed on Malfoy, the tightness in his posture betraying how fiercely he was holding himself together.

It was like watching a dam teeter on the brink of collapse, and Harry knew better than to be caught in the flood when it burst.

He needed to leave.

With careful, measured steps, Harry moved across the room, his feet almost tiptoeing, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile calm Voldemort had painstakingly maintained.

The last thing he wanted was to be the catalyst that broke through the Dark Lord’s ironclad control and unleashed the storm brewing beneath.

Just as he reached the door, Voldemort’s voice, soft yet commanding, filtered through the small gap as Harry pulled it shut. “I won’t do this without you, my Dear.” The words struck like a physical blow, halting Harry in his tracks. His hand remained on the door, the soft creak of the hinge the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor.

“I will bring you back, my Heart.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The rawness, the sheer vulnerability of those words, sliced through him like a hot blade. He hadn’t meant to overhear, hadn’t meant to intrude on something so deeply personal, so intimate.

“You have to come back to me.”

The plea hung in the air, saturated with desperation and something far more unsettling—love. A love so unguarded, so achingly real, that it made Harry’s chest tighten.

Malfoy had insisted that Voldemort had come to love him, but Harry had not truly believed it, dismissing it as a twisted manipulation or a delusion born from their complicated bond.

Yet hearing those words now—so raw, so unguarded—was something else entirely. It was like watching a chasm open up before him, one that separated the man he had known as Voldemort from the one who stood at Malfoy’s bedside.

Harry didn’t know what to do with this knowledge. How could he reconcile the man who had caused so much pain, who had torn apart so many lives, with the one who now spoke with such tenderness and desperation? The two images of Voldemort were irreconcilable, warring within his mind.

Harry’s breath hitched as he slowly released his grip on the door, letting it close softly behind him. The hallway felt colder, the walls narrowing as if to press in on him, demanding he confront this new reality.

Could someone like Voldemort truly love? Could he, the man who had once seemed incapable of anything but hatred and malice, actually be capable of such depth of feeling, of genuine devotion? Had Dumbledore been wrong about him all along, or had something changed within the Dark Lord that no one had anticipated?

The questions gnawed at Harry, each one more unsettling than the last. They twisted and tangled in his mind, leaving him confused and desperate for answers as he found his way to the rooms his sons were resting.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Lady Cissy had brought them candy. The kind wrapped in shiny paper that crackled when you unwrapped it, and Albus couldn’t help but feel a little better with the sweet taste on his tongue.

She had insisted that Albus could call her just Cissy, but he wasn’t sure if that was allowed. She was the kind of woman who looked like a queen, with her perfect hair and fancy clothes. She sat straight and tall, every movement graceful––what Aunt Hermione would call poised and Mum had called stuffy.

But even if she seemed a bit like someone out of a storybook, Albus liked her. She had kind eyes, even though she tried to hide it behind that perfect, serious face. And when she had handed him the candy, she had smiled, just a little, like she was trying to make him feel safe.

“Thank you, Lady Cissy,” he mumbled, and she had chuckled softly, not correcting him this time. It was nice, that she didn’t mind.

James had gotten a candy too, but he had stuffed it into his pocket, mumbling something about keeping it for Lily. Albus had felt a pang of guilt as he finished his own, the sweetness turning a little sour in his mouth. He should’ve saved it too, just in case.

They were waiting for Papa. Again.

The minutes dragged on like hours, the quiet ticking of the clock only making the silence heavier. When Papa had come by earlier, he had hugged them tight, his arms strong and warm, but there was something in his eyes—something exhausted and sad. It had made Albus’s chest hurt, seeing Papa like that, so he and James had been too afraid to ask how the “irrigation” had gone.

Not well, Albus knew, even without asking. Papa’s face had said enough, and the way he hadn’t mentioned Lily at all made the heavy feeling in Albus’s stomach sink deeper. He wanted to ask, to know what was going on, but the words just wouldn’t come. He was scared of the answer, scared of what it might mean.

So they waited, again, with Lady Cissy’s candy wrappers crinkling in their pockets.

“Alright, boys,” Miss Astoria’s voice was sweet and cheery, but Albus could tell it wasn’t real. Her eyes were heavy, sad, with dark circles underneath that didn’t match the brightness of her tone. “Let me check your progress.”

Albus glanced at James, who was still staring at the floor, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The cheerful words didn’t seem to reach him either. Miss Astoria knelt down in front of them, her smile soft but not quite reaching her tired eyes.

She gently took Albus’s hand, turning it over to check his pulse. Her fingers were warm, but there was a shakiness to them. “You’re doing well,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, as if she was trying to convince herself of it.

Albus wanted to ask her if she was okay, if maybe she needed a break too, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he just nodded, letting her continue her checks in silence.

“How…” Albus’s voice came out in a rough whisper, so he cleared his throat, trying again. “How is… Draco?”

Draco was a weird name, but Albus wasn’t going to tell Miss Astoria that. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt important to say the name right, to show that he cared, even if he didn’t know the man very well.

Miss Astoria paused for a moment, her hand still resting on James’s wrist. She looked at Albus, her expression softening, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something like worry or maybe even fear.

“He’s stable,” she said gently, though Albus could hear the carefulness in her tone. “He’s resting now, and we’re doing everything we can to help him get better.”

She offered him a small, reassuring smile. Albus could tell that she was trying to be strong for them, trying to keep the sadness and worry from showing too much.

Albus nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He didn’t really know what else to say, but he hoped that Draco would be okay, even if the name still sounded strange to him. He glanced over at James, who hadn’t moved, his face still turned toward the floor.

“Thank you,” Albus mumbled, feeling like he needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that was pressing down on them.

Miss Astoria’s smile softened a little more, and she reached out to gently ruffle Albus’s hair. “You’re a good boy, Albus,” she said quietly. “Draco’s lucky to have someone like you worrying about him.”

Albus didn’t really know if that was true, but he nodded anyway, hoping that it might help somehow.

She handed him a glass, round and wide at the bottom, narrowing at the top. The liquid inside was a swirly beige color, unappealing and bland looking. Albus eyed it warily, knowing exactly what it was.

A potion. She had told him that yesterday, explaining that it was supposed to help him feel better, stronger. It would make him grow, she had promised, and Albus really hoped she was right.

He didn’t want to stay as small as he was forever.

He took a hesitant sip, the taste as bland as it looked, not awful but not pleasant either. He wrinkled his nose, but he drank it all down like he was supposed to. If it would help, he could deal with the taste.

“Good job,” Miss Astoria said, her voice soft and encouraging. “It’ll help, I promise.”

Albus nodded, setting the glass down with a small clink. He hoped she was right, that this potion would make him feel better, stronger, and maybe even help him grow. He wanted to be able to stand tall like Papa, to feel like he wasn’t just a weak, little kid anymore.

“Do you think it’ll work fast?” he asked, glancing up at Miss Astoria with wide, earnest eyes.

She smiled warmly at him, brushing a stray curl out of his face. “Potions like this take a little time, but you’ll start feeling stronger soon. Just keep taking it, and before you know it, you’ll be feeling much better.”

Albus tried to imagine what that would be like—feeling strong, feeling like he could take on the world just like his Papa always did. It was a comforting thought, and he held onto it tightly, letting it push away some of the fear and uncertainty that had been gnawing at him since they’d been rescued.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Miss Astoria’s smile softened. “You’re very welcome, Albus. And remember, it’s okay to feel scared sometimes. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re brave, just like your Papa.”

Albus bit his lip, nodding again. He wasn’t sure if he believed that just yet, but he wanted to. He wanted to be brave, to be someone his Papa would be proud of.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and when it creaked open, Albus looked up to see his Papa stepping inside. He looked so tired, as though he needed a nap more than Albus and James combined. He wasn't going to ask about Lily, afraid of seeing his Papa cry.

“How are my boys?” Papa asked, a soft smile lifting the exhaustion from his face just a tiny bit.

“We’re okay, Papa,” Albus replied quietly, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. He glanced over at James, who was still staring at the floor, lost in his own thoughts, a world away.

Papa’s eyes darkened with concern as he turned to Miss Astoria, silently pleading for the truth he knew Albus was too afraid to speak. “Doctor?”

Miss Astoria offered a reassuring smile, though it was tinged with regret. “Physically, they are recovering right on track, Harry,” she said, her hand coming up to squeeze Albus’s shoulder. She hesitated just above James’s; afraid her touch might startle him.

“But they need more time with you,” Lady Cissy’s voice cut through the room, sounding as stern as Albus’s old homeroom teacher. “I know you’re worried about Draco as well but let me worry about him. You focus on yourself and your children, alright, Mr. Potter?”

She had stood from her armchair, looking at Papa with a serious face. But there was more than concern in the fine lines around her eyes. There was something in Lady Cissy’s eyes—something that didn’t quite make sense to Albus.

She looked afraid. But why would she be scared of Papa?

“Lady Malfoy,” Papa greeted her, his voice sounding strange, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to be mad or not. He gave her a small nod, but Albus could see the lines on his forehead, the way his mouth stayed tight as if he was holding something back.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Potter,” Lady Cissy replied, her voice polite and proper. But she didn’t meet Papa’s eyes, instead she bowed her head a little, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Almost like she was nervous Papa was going to start yelling at her.

Papa didn’t say anything back. He just stood there, quiet for a moment, his brows drawn together.

Lady Cissy glanced at the floor, and for a second, Albus thought she might say something to break the weird silence. And yet she remained silent, her fingers locked tightly.

“I am sorry,” Papa started, carefully, not quite looking at Lady Cissy. “I’m sorry about Malfoy…I mean, Draco.”

“Draco is strong, Mr. Potter. He will fight through this. You must believe that.” She didn’t sound like she fully believed that herself and it made Albus worry.

Papa’s face changed then, as if he didn’t know whether to keep being angry. His eyes looked sad, really sad, and that made Albus’s chest hurt a little. “I hope you’re right,” Papa said, his voice thick. He was trying really hard not to cry.

“I’ll leave you to your family,” she said quietly, her voice soft and formal again. “But please, don’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything.” She offered a small, sad smile to Albus and James, then nodded once more to Papa before turning and leaving the room. The soft click of the door closing behind her left the room in an uncomfortable silence.

Papa didn’t move right away. He stood there for a moment, staring at the door Lady Cissy had just left through, as if he was trying to figure out something really important. Albus wished he could help, but he didn’t know what to say.

Finally, Papa sighed and walked over to where they were sitting. He crouched down in front of them, his eyes tired but warm as he looked at them both. “Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to ruffle Albus’s hair, and then resting a hand on James’s shoulder.

“How are you two holding up?”

Albus nodded, he wasn’t really sure how to answer that. He wanted to tell Papa that he was okay, that everything was going to be fine, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, he just leaned into Papa’s hand, finding comfort in the familiar warmth.

James, though, didn’t respond. He kept staring at the floor, his hands still fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Papa moved closer to James, his hand rubbing small circles on his back. “James,” Papa said gently, his voice just above a whisper. “Talk to me, buddy. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

But James didn’t look up. He just kept staring at the same spot on the floor, like it held all the answers to the things he couldn’t say out loud. Albus could feel the tension in the room, the way Papa’s worry was growing with every second that James stayed silent.

“James, please,” Papa tried again, his voice cracking a little. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Just…talk to me.”

Albus watched as James’s hands clenched tighter, the knuckles turning white. It made Albus’s heart ache, seeing his brother like this, so far away even though he was right there next to them. He wanted to help, to say something that would make everything better, but he didn’t know how.

“Give him time, Harry,” Miss Astoria’s voice was soft, understanding. “James will share when he’s ready. Trauma… it shows up differently in everyone.”

She placed a comforting hand on Papa’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, before handing him a glass of the same beige potion she had given Albus. Papa didn’t drink it though, just set it down beside him with a sigh.

“We can’t force him to talk,” Miss Astoria continued, her tone steady. “All we can do is make sure he knows it’s safe to share when he feels ready.”

Albus watched his Papa, who seemed to be taking in her words, his gaze distant but troubled. He knew Papa wanted to help, wanted to make everything better, but sometimes, it wasn’t that simple. Sometimes, you just needed time, like Miss Astoria said.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Yes, she might have made a mistake when she decided to hold onto Harry Potter's companion.

Father had always been firm on one thing: Wizards are violent, evil creatures. He’d made sure she knew it, drilling it into her head like it was one of those unchangeable laws of nature. But in the chaos, in the literal heat of the moment, she’d forgotten the golden rule: never follow them onto their own ground.

They were ruthless, heartless animals—nothing would ever change that. The empty hole where her eye used to be, the crusted blood on her neck, and the sharp, throbbing pain in her head were all the proof she needed. Elizabeth winced as she shifted in the chair, the invisible ropes digging harshly into her wrists, making her hands tingle from lack of circulation.

It was cold, the kind of cold that creeps into your bones and refuses to let go. The damp air clung to her skin, and the darkness pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction—but trapped in the heart of the enemy’s stronghold, it was nearly impossible to keep that promise.

She had messed up. There was no other way to put it. She had gambled everything on a desperate move, and it had blown up in her face. The moment Harry Potter had stormed out, breathing heavily and looking furious like a cornered animal, she knew this was the end for her.

Voldemort.

Even the name sent an icy shiver down her spine. His followers had murdered her mother, ripping her apart with a cold, methodical precision that still invaded Elizabeth’s nightmares. Now, she was certain that he would kill her too.

But not before making her suffer.

She gritted her teeth, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as she fought to keep her composure. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. No, she would face him, defiant to the very end, even if it meant staring into the terrifying void of those cold, crimson eyes.

The echo of footsteps reverberated through the corridor, each slow, deliberate step sending a fresh wave of terror coursing through her chest. Elizabeth stiffened, her heart pounding louder with every passing second as the footsteps drew nearer, the oppressive darkness around her seeming to grow thicker with each echo.

This was it. The end.

A thud resonated from the hallway, something heavy and solid slamming against the floor just outside the door. The sound jarred her nerves, making the wooden door tremble in its frame.

The door creaked open, the faint light from the corridor slicing through the darkness. Elizabeth forced herself to look up, her jaw clenched in grim determination. She would not be broken. Not now, not ever. If this was the end, she’d meet it head-on, defiant to her last breath.

"Ready for transport, Dr. Curie?" The voice was unmistakably feminine, light and almost sing-song in its tone, but the figure standing before her was anything but. A towering man, broad-shouldered and imposing, loomed over her.

He was draped in crimson robes that billowed slightly as he moved, his black boots polished to a gleam that caught the faint light spilling into the room. The disconnect between the voice and the figure was jarring.

Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the wand gripped firmly in the man’s hand, her muscles tensing as she prepared herself for the pain that would surely follow. Her breath hitched, each second stretched thin with dread.

But then, with a swift, precise motion, the man flicked his wand. The invisible bindings that had been cruelly biting into her wrists suddenly slackened and fell away, leaving her hands free. The expected torment never came, replaced instead by the unsettling calm of an unexpected reprieve.

Tears threatened to spill from the corner of Elizabeth’s remaining eye, unbidden and unwanted. She blinked them back furiously, unwilling to show any further sign of weakness. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Get up,” the voice commanded—familiar yet disturbingly out of place in the man’s body.

Elizabeth obeyed without hesitation, though her legs wobbled beneath her, trembling from the hours spent confined. She nearly collapsed, but the Auror moved swiftly, his grip firm around her arm—not harsh, but steady, supporting her weight as she found her footing.

“Where—where are you taking me?” Elizabeth’s voice barely rose above a whisper, trembling with fear and fragility. She loathed how weak and defeated it sounded—so far removed from the commanding voice she once wielded with such authority.

“To safety,” the figure replied, though Elizabeth couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt that this wasn’t an Auror at all. Their voice was clipped and impatient, lacking the reassurance she desperately craved.
As they stepped out of the cell, Elizabeth’s eyes struggled to adjust to the flickering light of the flames, but something on the floor caught her attention—a heap of fabric. Her breath hitched when the Auror pulled back the red blanket, revealing an unconscious young man sprawled beneath it.

Elizabeth bit down hard on her tongue, determined not to let any trace of pity slip through her stoic exterior.

The figure said nothing about the unconscious man, their focus unwavering as they reached into their robe pocket. With deliberate precision, they produced a small glass vial filled with a sickly green liquid that bubbled ominously.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring as she eyed the bubbling green liquid. “What’s that?” Her voice was sharper now, regaining some of its former strength, a demand for answers rather than a question.

The figure sighed, a sound tinged with impatience. “Polyjuice Potion,” they responded tersely, clearly annoyed at having to explain. “It usually doesn’t work on Muggles, but since you’re a half-blood, it should do the trick—even if you don’t have magic yourself. Just don’t expect it to last as long.”

Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. Half-blood. The word rattled around in her mind, dredging up memories she had buried deep, memories she had tried to deny. But there was no time to dwell on them—not now. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the vial of potion that might be her only way out.

“And what’s the plan?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, though the edge of fear was surely unmistakable. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The figure held out the vial, their gaze locking onto hers with a cold intensity. “Drink it. It’ll buy you time—enough to get you out of here without anyone recognizing you. But you’ll need to move quickly. Once the potion wears off, you’re on your own.”

Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers curling around the vial, the glass cool and smooth against her skin. She didn’t trust this person—not fully—but what choice did she have? Her survival depended on it, on taking this chance, however slim it might be.

Steeling herself, she uncorked the vial, the pungent scent of the potion hitting her nose. With one last glance at the figure, she raised the vial to her lips and drank.

The moment the potion touched her tongue, Elizabeth recoiled. It was revolting, a taste so foul it was all she could do not to gag. But she forced it down, the thick liquid sliding unpleasantly down her throat.

As the potion began to take effect, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by a strange, uncomfortable sensation that coursed through her body. It started as a prickling beneath her skin, a crawling feeling that made her want to scratch at herself, to make it stop. But it only grew worse.

Her bones seemed to shift and stretch, the very structure of her body warping and contorting. Muscles tensed and twisted as if they were being pulled in different directions at once, and her stomach churned violently, a nausea rising that threatened to overwhelm her. She clutched at the cold, damp wall for support, her fingers digging into the rough surface as she fought to stay upright.

Every inch of her felt wrong, foreign, as if her body no longer belonged to her. The sensation was horrifying, a violation of the natural order, and it took all her strength not to scream, not to give in to the panic clawing at the edges of her mind.

The figure watched her intently, their impatience etched into the man’s harsh features, making the atmosphere even more suffocating. "Good," they finally muttered, once the transformation was complete, the word carrying a weight of expectation. Without wasting a moment, they thrust a robe into her hands—crimson, like their own, the color almost mocking in its vibrancy amidst the gloom.

A quick, almost dismissive swish of their wand, and Elizabeth’s shoes began to expand and darken, the leather shifting until she found herself wearing the same imposing black boots as the figure before her.

It was a small transformation compared to the one she had just endured, but it made her feel even less like herself, as if she were slipping further into a role she hadn’t chosen.

Elizabeth nodded weakly, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, making her heart pound erratically in her chest. The robe felt heavy in her hands, as though it carried the weight of what was to come, and she struggled to quell the rising tide of panic.

She had no idea who this person was, or where they were taking her, but for now, she had no choice but to trust that this was her best, perhaps only, chance at survival.

They continued down the winding corridors, the flames flickering ominously as they moved past, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to reach out and claw at the walls.

The air was thick with the smell of burning wood and something acrid, stinging her nose and making her eyes water, but she kept her focus forward, forcing herself to ignore the discomfort. The silence between them was taut, the only sound their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hallway, each step a reminder of the unknown that lay ahead.

Elizabeth didn’t dare sigh in relief until they stepped out of the cramped elevator that had carried them up toward the surface.

The lobby stretched out before them, vast and bustling with activity—witches and wizards in their garish, anachronistic clothing moving about in a chaotic rhythm. It was overwhelming, the sheer contrast between the isolation of the underground and the sudden explosion of color and sound, and she felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over her.

“Paulen!”

The voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and commanding, slicing through the chattering of those around them. Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her body stiffening in response. Beside her, the man froze, every muscle going rigid as if caught in a deadly trap.

Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, the sound of it loud in her ears as she watched, waiting for the figure’s next move.

For a split second, the mask of calm confidence slipped—a flicker of panic darting across their face before the stoic expression was hastily reassembled. It was brief, but it was enough. Enough to confirm what Elizabeth had already feared: this was no Auror.

The imposter turned slowly, each movement measured, as if trying to retain a grip on the situation that was rapidly spiraling out of control. “Yes?” they responded, their voice steady, but now Elizabeth could hear the tremor beneath the surface—a forced calm that only amplified the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.

The man who had called out stepped into their path, his presence imposing, his gaze flickering between the imposter and Elizabeth. His eyes narrowed, suspicion darkening his features, and for a moment, it felt as though Elizabeth’s heart had stopped altogether.

She knew exactly who he was—Headauror Rob Weasley. His name had surfaced countless times in the reports, his face a constant reminder in the warnings they received whenever those monsters got too close to one of the labs.

He was an imposing figure, tall but lean, with thinning blond hair and a face perpetually set in a grimace, as though he was constantly battling some hidden discomfort.

The mere sight of him ignited a visceral hatred within her, a loathing that burned through her veins like acid. It wasn’t just him—she despised all wizards, with their insufferable arrogance, their smug sense of superiority, their belief that they were better, more powerful, simply because they had magic. It made her sick to her core.

Weasley’s gaze lingered on the imposter, suspicion tightening every line on his face. “Paulen,” he said, his tone sharp and clipped, “I thought I made myself clear—you’re off duty until you’ve recovered. I don’t want to see you here again until the Healers clear you. You sound awful.”

The imposter swallowed hard, their facade slipping just a fraction. “I just thought—”

“Don’t think,” Rob Weasley snapped, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. “Do as you’re told. Now get out of here before you infect the entire department.”

Elizabeth forced herself to stay silent, praying that Weasley’s attention wouldn’t swing back to her. She could feel the tension radiating off the imposter, the barely contained panic as they fought to maintain their crumbling ruse.

“Of course, sir,” the imposter finally managed, their voice tight with barely suppressed fear. They turned sharply, grabbing Elizabeth’s arm with a grip that was almost too hard, pulling her along with them as they made their hasty retreat.

As they hurried away, Elizabeth could practically feel Weasley’s piercing gaze drilling into her back, the weight of his suspicion hanging over her like a leaden shroud. Every step she managed to put between them felt like a small victory, a narrow escape from the inevitable.

When they finally reached the curb, Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, her chest heaving from the effort of maintaining the charade. She leaned heavily against a nearby lamppost, her heart pounding as if it might burst from her chest.

“That was Rob Weasley, wasn’t it?” she whispered, her voice trembling, raw with exhaustion and fear.

The imposter whirled on her, eyes flashing with a mix of exasperation and something darker—disbelief, perhaps, or disdain. “What? No! That prick was Auror Cadwallader. For Merlin’s sake, Curie, you’re out of your depth. Stay in your lane, Doctor—that’s an order from above.”

Elizabeth recoiled at the sharpness of the words, the reality of her situation hitting her with the force of a sledgehammer. She wasn’t just caught in a dangerous game; she was teetering on the edge of an abyss, the ground crumbling beneath her feet without the safety of a net below.

The imposter grabbed her arm, the grip firm but not cruel, and pulled her down the street with renewed urgency. “We don’t have time for mistakes like that. If you slip up again, we’re both dead. Do you understand?”

Elizabeth nodded mutely, her throat tight with fear. *

~~~~~*~~~~~

All of it was his fault. Every single bit of it. James felt the weight of it pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe, making him wish he could just disappear.

If he had just kept his mouth shut, if he hadn't taken that last pastry, if he hadn’t teased Lily, none of this would have happened. It was so stupid, fighting over something as small as a pastry. But he had been greedy, and now everything was ruined.

Mum would still be alive. The thought tore at him, sharp and painful. If he hadn’t been so careless, maybe they wouldn’t have been found. Lily wouldn’t have felt the need to cast that stupid spell, and they could’ve just stayed hidden. Safe. Together.

But instead, Lily was gone, Mum was gone, and Dad…Dad looked like a ghost of himself, like he was walking around in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. And Albus…Albus wouldn’t stop crying. James had never seen his little brother cry so much before, and every tear felt like it was tearing James apart from the inside.

He couldn’t stand to look at Albus, couldn’t stand to see the hurt in his eyes, the fear. Because he knew it was his fault. If he hadn’t been so stupid, so selfish, Albus wouldn’t have had to go through any of this. He wouldn’t have been hurt, wouldn’t have had to drink those awful potions, wouldn’t have had nightmares about things James couldn’t even imagine.

Nightmares just like Papa’s. James could see it in the way he moved, slow and tired, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He wasn’t the same father James remembered, the one who always had a smile, who always knew what to do.

Now, he just looked lost, broken, and it was all because of James. The guilt gnawed at him, making his chest feel tight, like he could barely breathe.

And now this man was suffering, too. Draco Malfoy. James had seen him only once when Papa had found them, but that moment had stuck with him. So here he was, sitting by the man’s side, unable to do anything but apologize.

Malfoy had stayed with Papa, had protected him, and now he was lying in a hospital bed, in a coma because he had saved Papa. Because of him. Because James had been careless, because he hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut.

James tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go away. He wanted to fix it, wanted to make everything better, but he didn’t know how. All he knew was that it was his fault, and that was something he didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself for.

He felt so small, so helpless, like the whole world was crashing down around him, and all he could do was stand there and watch. Watch as Papa broke down, as Albus cried, as Malfoy lay there, teetering between life and death.

All because of him.

“It’s not your fault,” the voice was raspy and labored, like it had been dragged through gravel, and when James shot up from his seat, he bumped into the hospital bed, sending it rocking. Mr. Malfoy winced in pain, his pale face twisting with the effort.

James’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of shock and guilt flooding through him. He hadn’t expected Mr. Malfoy to be awake, let alone to speak. He felt frozen, his hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I—I’m sorry,” James stammered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to—” He cut himself off, not sure what he was even apologizing for anymore. Everything? Nothing? The fact that he was standing there, useless, while Mr. Malfoy suffered because of him?

Mr. Malfoy’s breathing was shallow, each breath seeming to take more effort than the last. He looked at James, his eyes hazy but focused enough to lock onto the boy. “It isn’t your fault,” he repeated, the words softer this time, but no less firm.

James swallowed hard, shaking his head even as tears stung at his eyes. “But it is,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. “If I hadn’t...if I hadn’t taken the last pastry, Lily wouldn’t have...and then they wouldn’t have...and you wouldn’t be...”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The words lodged in his throat, too painful to say out loud.

Mr. Malfoy’s gaze softened, despite the pain etched in his features. He reached out, though the movement was weak and shaky, and placed a hand on James’s arm. The touch was light, almost ghostly, but it was enough to ground James in the moment.

“James,” Mr. Malfoy said, his voice still raspy but filled with a strange kind of strength. “What happened...it wasn’t your fault. None of it. You’re just a kid. And no one—no one—could’ve stopped what happened.”

James stared at him, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He wanted to believe him, wanted to let go of the crushing guilt, but it clung to him like a shadow, dark and relentless.

“But—” James started, his voice small and broken.

“No buts,” Mr. Malfoy interrupted gently, his hand giving a weak but reassuring squeeze. “You’re not responsible for what they did. They’re the ones who hurt your family, not you. Remember that.”

James couldn’t stop the tears from falling now, each one hot and heavy as it rolled down his cheeks. He nodded, though it felt more like a reflex than an actual understanding. How could he just accept that? How could he just let go of the blame when it felt like it was the only thing he had control over?

But Mr. Malfoy had spoken with such certainty, such conviction, that a small part of James wanted to believe him.

“How about you help me now?” Mr. Malfoy’s voice was still strained, but there was a faint glimmer of humor in his eyes, as if he was trying to lighten the moment. “How about you call for my husband, the angry one—” He broke off, coughing, and his face twisted with pain, his grip on James’s arm tightening involuntarily before he let go.

James’s heart lurched. He felt a surge of panic rise in his chest. He needed to do something—anything—to help.

“Okay, okay,” James said quickly, trying to keep his voice steady even as fear clawed at him. He looked around the room, trying to figure out the best way to get help. “I’ll—I'll get him. Just...just hang on.”

He turned and bolted for the door, his feet stumbling over each other in his haste. He didn’t know where Voldemort was—probably still pacing somewhere, lost in his own dark thoughts—but James would find him.

Bursting out into the hallway, he skidded to a stop, his eyes darting around frantically. The corridor was quiet, eerily so, but he caught sight of a familiar figure at the far end, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and face set in a deep scowl.

Papa.

Chapter Text

Death.

It had always been the one thing Voldemort truly feared. No matter how much power he wielded, how many safeguards he crafted, it remained inevitable. Inescapable. It moved silently, with cruel precision, stealing away what was most precious without warning.

It was his eternal enemy, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment when all his carefully laid defenses would crumble.

And no matter how many horcruxes he had once made, no matter how far he had gone to cheat it, the truth was painfully clear: death would, one day, come for him.

He had long accepted his own eventual demise. He could face that. He could prepare for that. But this fear, this gnawing terror that twisted inside him now—it wasn’t for himself.

The thought of death coming for Draco was an agony he could not bear.

It was that fear that often kept him pacing through the dark corridors at night, restless and sleepless, while Draco lay curled under their blankets, his chest rising and falling gently.

Voldemort had planned for his own departure from this world. He could even embrace it… in time.

But the idea of a long, hollow existence without Draco beside him? That was unthinkable.

Losing his husband would be a torment unlike limbo itself. It wasn’t like the wars, or betrayals, or even the countless deaths he had caused. This was different. This was personal.

What good was immortality if it meant loneliness? What use was power if he had no one to share it with, no one who mattered? Draco had given him purpose beyond domination, a reason for it all. Without him, near eternity would stretch out like a wasteland, devoid of meaning.

The thought stoked a fresh surge of fury deep within him, a dark, relentless anger that interwove with helplessness. It had been his failure—his recklessness—that allowed this to happen. He had been blind, too focused on the external threats to realize how impulsive Draco had become.

How could he have been so foolish to miss it?

The shame fueled the rage that now guided his every move. Yet as his red eyes swept across the room, he made sure none of that turmoil was visible to the trembling fools before him.

He relished the sight of the Auror crumbling beneath his power, reduced to a shivering wreck. Each desperate, choked breath was a testament to the dominion he held over life and death.

A flick of his wand, and the man’s dignity had been stripped away, leaving him gasping, pitiful, on the cold marble floor.

It was a fitting punishment for failure—failing to hold captive what had nearly cost Voldemort his most prized possession. What had nearly taken his husband from him.

The weight of his anger hung around him like a billowing cloak. Every attendant, every pathetic servant, was bowed low, too terrified to meet his gaze.

Voldemort’s fingers tightened around his wand as he considered ending the man’s suffering. It would be so easy, so satisfying, to wipe him from existence. A thoughtless flick of his wrist, and the Auror’s life would be over, just another victim to the abyss.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, the image of Draco lying so still in that hospital bed flashed before him—fragile, barely clinging to life. His grip loosened. Draco would chastise him for yet another corpse, as justified as it perhaps was.

"Cadwallader," Voldemort’s voice was a venomous whisper, the name a lash of cold steel. The Auror flinched, his body trembling under the weight of Voldemort’s scowl. "Explain to me... how you failed to hold the traitor. Explain, and perhaps you will live to see another day."

He wasn’t really interested in the man’s excuse. The explanation wouldn’t undo the failure, wouldn’t change the fact that they had lost the chance at retribution. But he asked anyway, his glare burning with disgust.

This was an exercise in control. To remind himself that even in moments of weakness, in moments where fear gripped his heart, he was still the Dark Lord. He still had the power to end lives, to control the fates of those around him.

Voldemort’s lips curled into a mirthless smile as he watched the Auror struggle for air. The man’s life hung by a thread; a thread Voldemort could sever with the barest thought.

“Well?” His red eyes glinted dangerously as he lowered his wand ever so slightly, allowing the Auror a single breath of relief before tightening the invisible grip once more.

The Auror’s voice quavered as he struggled to form words, but Voldemort’s patience wore thinner with each passing second.

He could see it in the Auror's hunched shoulders, the way his entire body seemed to wilt under the weight of his failure—the grim understanding that no excuse, no explanation, would suffice.

This man knew, as did all the others cowering in the room, that nothing could undo the damage. The mistake had already been made.

Voldemort’s wand hovered, ready to release his wrath, when a hurried clatter of footsteps disrupted his thoughts. The doors to the chamber swung open, and a healer stumbled in, breathless and wide-eyed, their expression one of pure dread.

“My Lord,” the healer began, voice trembling. “We tried to keep him out, truly, but Harry Potter—he forced his way through. He requests to speak with you.”

Voldemort’s gaze snapped to the healer, but before he could respond, Harry stormed through the doorway with all the grace of a man who couldn’t care less about propriety—or the Dark Lord’s authority.

“Requests?” Voldemort repeated, his voice low and threatening.

“Please,” Harry scoffed, his tone careless as he charged into the chambers, his shoulders squared, ready for a fight. “I don’t need your permission. You can thank your guards for trying, though.”

The impertinence was as infuriating as it was predictable.

The boy had always been one to challenge, to push against the constraints placed before him—even when it brought him to the edge of ruin.

Naturally, his Soul couldn’t resist speaking out of turn, Harry’s green eyes studying the shaking Auror with regret. “Really, Voldemort? Going to kill him? How wonderfully predictable.”

Ah.

This anger was familiar, the target of it tangible, and Voldemort’s fingers itched to unleash a curse. It took every ounce of self-control not to act on that impulse, to remember that yielding to such desires wouldn’t serve his ultimate goal.

Gaining Harry's loyalty demanded more than brute strength and intimidation. While cruelty could establish control, indeed, it was not the key to unlocking what Voldemort desired most—Harry Potter's trust, his surrender, and with patience, his affection.

This lesson had been seared into him, not through battle but through his marriage. It was Draco's trust, earned through patience and subtlety, that had shown Voldemort the limits of raw power.

Control could be imposed, yes, but trust had to be cultivated, and affection, that rarest of treasures, could only be freely given. The process had been a revelation, as painful as it was enlightening.

And so, with a slow, purposeful breath, Voldemort forced the fury back, burying it beneath a veneer of cold, calculated composure.

“Do enlighten me, Harry,” Voldemort’s voice was a low, sweet drawl, each word a deliberate taunt. “What would you prefer I do instead?”

“Let the poor man breathe,” Harry shot back. “Maybe then he can actually tell you something useful.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, but with a lazy, almost contemptuous flick of his wrist, the invisible force strangling the Auror’s breath dissipated.

The man shook on the floor, gasping desperately for air. Voldemort’s gaze remained locked on Harry. “Very well, Harry,” the Dark Lord purred. “Let us hear what he has to say. But make no mistake—this mercy is not for him. It’s for you, my Soul.”

Harry’s jaw clenched at the sound of the pet name. “How gracious of you,” he sneered.

Voldemort’s lips curled into a predatory smile, savoring the fiery insubordination burning bright in Harry’s emerald eyes. There was something intoxicating about Harry’s refusal to break, an unyielding spirit that remained steadfast despite the oppressive power looming over him.

It was a defiance Voldemort found... compelling. Infuriating, maddening, yes—but a challenge. And, as much as he despised admitting it, he relished the battle of wills more than he should.

He found himself drawn deeper into it with every sharp retort, every flash of defiance in that challenging stare. “I am aware,” Voldemort smiled, as if Harry’s anger was nothing more than a source of amusement for him.

The words were designed to fan the flames of Harry’s fury, a deliberate provocation, and perhaps a means to distract himself from the simmering dread beneath his own façade; the worry that had dominated his mind since that bullet had found its target in Draco.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "And I’m aware you’re a sadistic bastard," he replied, his voice sharp and cutting. "But playing your sick games won’t get you what you want. It never has."

There was a dangerous gleam in Harry’s eyes, one that matched the ether in his voice. Harry stepped closer, refusing to back down even when Voldemort fully turned on him. "If you really want answers, then stop wasting time with this petty power play and start acting like the leader you pretend to be."

Voldemort’s smile tightened, a flash of anger flickering behind his eyes before it was buried beneath a cold, treacherous calm. The Aurors in the room grew tense, their instincts sensing the danger lingering, but Voldemort maintained his composure, reigning in his fury.

"Your subversiveness is admirable, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice low and controlled. "But do not mistake my care, my patience, for weakness. There is a time and place for everything, and you would do well to remember that."

He took a step closer to Harry, his red eyes boring into Harry’s green. "You may speak to me in this manner here, now, because I allow it. But be mindful of the line you tread. Even you have limits, my Soul."

Voldemort turned away, dismissing Harry with a slow, deliberate wave of his hand, as if to show that the entire conversation—this confrontation—was beneath him, unworthy of any further attention.

"Patience? Weakness?" Harry huffed, his voice steady despite the anger roiling beneath it. Voldemort could practically taste the bitterness in his words. "You talk about care, but it seems you lack the care to know that Draco Malfoy has woken up."

Voldemort froze, the sharpness of Harry's words sinking in like the tip of a blade. The unexpected information hit him harder than he let show, the carefully constructed walls around his emotions trembled.

"He’s asked for you," Harry twisted the knife deeper, his tone infuriatingly casual, as if Draco’s request was a mere afterthought, something inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Voldemort’s mind spun, a rapid whirl of conflicting emotions. Relief surged first—Draco had survived. He was alive, breathing, asking for him. But concern quickly followed, gnawing at the edges of his composure. How weak was Draco still? How close had he come to losing him?

And then came the anger. Anger at Harry for delivering the news with such offhanded indifference. Anger that he had allowed himself to be caught off guard in front of his subordinates, his momentary lapse exposed for all to see.

Voldemort forced his emotions back into place, masking the turmoil inside.

Slowly, Voldemort turned, his eyes narrowing dangerously on Harry, who, despite the mounting threat to his wellbeing, remained infuriatingly calm.

"Maybe," Harry continued, holding his ground as his frown deepened, his gaze shifting downward to the Auror still curled on the floor, "there are more important things than showing off your power to those who already fear you."

The boy was clever, Voldemort knew that, too clever for his own good. His challenge was unmistakable, as though Harry had thrown down a gauntlet and dared Voldemort to pick it up.

The insinuation cut deep—that Voldemort’s priorities were misguided, that he was wasting time on hollow displays of dominance rather than focusing on what truly mattered.

Voldemort’s eyes darkened, his mind racing to balance the need for authority with the gnawing concern for Draco. Harry had played his hand well, and Voldemort knew he had little choice but to acknowledge it.

“Your concern for Draco is touching,” Voldemort finally purred, his voice dripping with menace. “But do not presume to use him as leverage, Harry. That will not end well for you.”

Harry’s response was immediate, defiant. “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots, Voldemort. You forget that threats don’t work on me anymore. I’ve faced far worse than you.”

This was different. Where there had once been fear, veiled by determination, now stood a man who seemed... fearless.

Voldemort’s pride flared, the desire to crush that arrogance rising swiftly in his chest. Harry faced Voldemort not with the gravity the situation demanded, but with a casual aloofness, as though the danger that radiated from the Dark Lord was of little consequence to him.

It was as if Harry had become daring to the point of being flippant, dancing perilously close to the line between courage and foolhardiness.

A lesser man would have quaked under the weight of Voldemort’s mere presence, but Harry Potter—his beloved, frustrating, infuriating Harry—stood there, disobedient, daring him to follow through on his threats.

Voldemort allowed a slow, lethal smile to spread across his face. “You are mistaken if you believe your bravado shields you from the consequences of your actions, Harry,” he murmured, his voice low and mellifluous.

The distance between them shrank as Voldemort moved with deliberate intent, leaving his Harry with a choice: tilt his chin upward to meet the Dark Lord’s piercing gaze, or lower his eyes and concede the moment. But Harry, as always, refused to yield. His head lifted defiantly, their faces centimeters apart.

There was something dangerously intoxicating about this version of Harry, something that made Voldemort’s desire for control blur with a desire for something far more complex.

Voldemort’s voice was barely a whisper, yet each word carried the weight of a dark promise. “You’ve faced worse, have you? And yet here you are, standing before me, challenging me to go further… Why, Harry? What is it that drives you to defy me, again and again?”

There was a brief flicker of something in Harry’s eyes—anger, fear, and something far more valuable – excitement.

Though it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that same resolve that Voldemort had come to expect.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Voldemort cut him off, “Do you think your righteous fury will save you every time, Harry? You’re standing at the edge of a precipice, and all it will take is one wrong move to plunge you into the abyss. But perhaps you enjoy dancing on that edge—danger has always drawn you in, hasn’t it?”

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with a dark amusement, his voice dripping with mockery. “Tell me, how much longer will you play this game before you realize the inevitable? Or do you secretly revel in this—testing your limits, seeing how far you can push before you break?”

He leaned in closer, his tone softening but losing none of its intensity. “Or maybe, just maybe, you’re waiting for me to break first. Is that it, Harry? Do you think you can make me bow before you?”

Triumph.

It was sweet, intoxicating, as he watched Harry’s pupils dilate, catching the faint hitch in his breath. It was a subtle sign, but enough to stoke the fire of his satisfaction. Harry’s composure, that infuriating wall of defiance, had cracked—if only for a moment.

His hand came up to cup Harry’s face, to hold it in place. “Yes, I see it now. Is that it? You may not admit it, Harry, but there’s a part of you that’s drawn to this, to me. You can’t help it, can you? The thrill of this dance, the danger, the power… It’s exhilarating, isn’t it?”

Voldemort savored the way Harry’s jaw clenched, the way his breath came uneven ever so slightly. He was walking a razor’s edge, testing Harry’s limits, and with each passing second, he felt that shift—subtle desire, just out of reach but there, nonetheless, thrumming along the bond.

“You may think you’re in control,” Voldemort continued, his voice smooth and hypnotic, “but we both know the truth, don’t we? You can’t walk away, and you won’t. Not until I win.”

Voldemort’s gaze remained locked on Harry, savoring the tension as it hummed between them like a taut string ready to snap.

He could feel Harry’s resistance weakening, his breath coming faster, and for a brief moment, Voldemort considered what it might take to break that stubborn resolve completely. Just a little more pressure, a little more push, and Harry might yield.

“I absolutely hate interrupting…whatever this is, truly,” the voice cut through the simmering tension and Voldemort’s wand lifted almost instinctively, the beginnings of a Crucio forming on his lips, his eyes narrowing dangerously on Weasley’s smug face.

The Headauror had always been a thorn in his side, and this interruption—this blatant disrespect—was a provocation Voldemort wasn’t inclined to overlook.

But before the curse could even take shape, Harry moved.

“Protego!” The shield charm burst into existence between Voldemort and Headauror Weasley, deflecting the dark magic just in time. The crackle of energy reverberated through the room, and Harry stood firm, his wand still raised, a daring look flashing in his eyes.

“Really, Voldemort?” Harry’s voice was sharp, a cutting challenge wrapped in frustration. “You’re going to curse him because he interrupted you?”

Voldemort’s fury lingered, but instead of erupting, he lowered his wand slowly, his red eyes gleaming with something darker than anger. “Perhaps,” he warned, “he should learn when to stay silent.”

Headauror Weasley, his face pale but resolute, opened his mouth to speak, “You know, you could both just call it a day and—”.

Harry quickly cut him off with a terse, “Shut up, Ron.”

At Harry’s quick dismissal, the Headauror’s face darkened, clearly ready to challenge his friend’s order. Voldemort watched with curiosity; he had seen them willing to die for another but the ire between them had only grown since their… reunion.

Weasley’s face flushed with indignation, his features tightening as if preparing to hurl a retort, but Harry’s sharp, controlled voice cut through the space like a blade.

“Ron,” Harry growled through gritted teeth. “I said, shut up.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Weasley’s jaw worked, his eyes flashing with barely suppressed anger, but he swallowed the retort. Instead, he shifted his posture, standing straighter as if bracing himself.

“How would you like us to proceed, my Lord?” Weasley pressed, his words coated with thinly veiled disgust, his tone tight.

Voldemort’s gaze turned hard. “Proceed as planned, Headauror Weasley,” he said, each word clipped and precise. “Ensure no one else slips through your grasp… or you’ll find yourself answering for far more than just this interruption.”

Weasley’s lips thinned, his compliance edged with resentment, as he stepped back with a curt nod.

With that, he turned his attention back to Harry. The moment had passed. “Lead the way,” Voldemort commanded, leaving no room for hesitation.

Harry’s eyes flickered, but without another word, he turned, leading them away from the chamber of failed interrogations.

As they walked, Voldemort’s gaze lingered on Harry’s back, observing every movement, every twitch with satisfaction.

The years of conflict had left their mark, and Voldemort knew that, in time, Harry would yield—perhaps not through force, but through the relentless pressure that only Voldemort could apply.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Harry’s heart raced as he led Voldemort down the winding halls of St. Mungo’s, the distinct smell of the hospital doing little to quell the storm inside him. His mind was frazzled, a whirlwind of confusion, disbelief, and a healthy dose of "what the actual fuck just happened?" swirling through him.

Voldemort’s gaze pressed heavily on his back, a weight he could practically feel in every step he took. The Dark Lord’s presence was always suffocating, but now, after that… whatever that had been, it felt unbearable.

Harry’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of the maelstrom of emotions twisting inside him. Anger was the loudest. It always was when it came to Voldemort.

The man had taunted him, tried to push him over the edge, and Harry had barely held it together. That infuriating smile, the way Voldemort closed the distance between them as if it were nothing—as if he hadn’t caused Harry years of torment—had nearly sent him spiraling.

But beneath the anger, something else lingered, something Harry didn’t want to name. His heart had raced for more reasons than just fury back there, and he hated that he couldn’t ignore it.

It wasn’t just adrenaline—there had been something more in the way Voldemort looked at him, something almost intimate. Harry clenched his fists, willing himself not to think about it and failed.

What did Voldemort want from him? Power? Control? Sure, that was easy enough to understand, but that moment felt like something different. That soft voice, the words whispered in his ear, the way Voldemort leaned in—it wasn’t fear Harry had felt, it was… God, what was it?

The hospital hallway stretched out endlessly before him, but Harry couldn’t focus. His thoughts spiraled, intertwining with the steady beat of his footsteps. How had Voldemort gotten under his skin like this?

The Dark Lord was supposed to be the embodiment of everything Harry despised—cold, cruel, merciless. And yet, there was something more now. Something dangerous and far too personal.

Harry’s body tensed, shoulders tightening as the awareness of Voldemort’s stare settled deeper. He felt exposed, as though the man could see through his defenses, straight to the confusion swirling in his mind.

A small part of him, buried beneath layers of anger and disbelief, was unsettled by how close Voldemort had gotten, by how easily he had shattered Harry’s composure.

“No,” Harry thought, shaking his head slightly. “This is just another one of his games. He’s trying to get in your head. That’s all this is.”

It made sense, didn’t it? Every time Voldemort pushed him, it was a calculated move, a tactic designed to unbalance him. This had to be the same—a power play, nothing more.

Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, Harry didn’t have time for games, regardless of the man’s accusations. Harry didn’t enjoy the game, wasn’t drawn to danger. No, danger found him, and he found himself forced to fight it.

Voldemort’s attempts to rile him up, to pull him into another twisted power struggle, were meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Harry had far more pressing concerns. His daughter was still out there—vulnerable, trapped somewhere.

Lily.

Her name grounded him, filled him with purpose, and drove out the chaos swirling in his mind.

Voldemort had always thrived on control, but Harry had learned long ago that the Dark Lord could only control those who allowed him to. And Harry? He wouldn’t let himself be distracted or controlled—not when his child’s life hung in the balance.

~~~~~*~~~~~

A cool hand brushed across Draco’s forehead, pulling him from the haze of unconsciousness that had claimed him once again.

Each breath came in shallow bursts, an effort as the pain in his chest intensified. The brightness of the room was disorienting, but the steady, sharp gaze of Tom anchored him, grounding him against the pull of the darkness. Those red eyes, always so commanding, were now softened.

“You’re awake,” the Dark Lord murmured, his voice unusually gentle. Concern was etched into every line of his face; dark brows furrowed, full lips drawn down in a way that made Draco’s chest tighten—not from pain, but from the unfamiliar sight of Tom like this.

Oh, he was beautiful.

Draco’s lips parted, the roughness of his voice surprising him. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for—his failure, his recklessness, or simply that he had worried Tom.

Tom’s fingers grazed his forehead, cool and gentle, a stark contrast to the fury Draco had expected. “Don’t,” Tom whispered, his thumb brushing through a lock of Draco’s hair.

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut as Tom’s fingers continued their soft, reverent dance over his skin. It felt like a balm for the burning ache in his chest, soothing the pain in a way nothing else could.

He let himself sink into the moment, feeling the comforting touch of those fingertips, sweeping across his brow, down the bridge of his nose. There was an intimacy in the gesture that nearly brought tears to his eyes—Tom tracing each feature as though memorizing the face he had nearly lost.

“I’m still here,” Draco whispered, barely audible.

Tom’s hand stilled for a moment, as if absorbing the words, before resuming its gentle tracing. “Yes, you are,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with vulnerability—a tone Draco so rarely heard.

Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his eyes still closed, breathing in the quiet closeness between them. The delicate scent of tea lingered in the air.

And yet, Draco could feel the tension radiating from Tom. He had expected fury—anger for the reckless decision that had nearly cost him his life—but when he opened his eyes again, he still only saw concern.

“I’m sorry. I just had to…” Draco rasped, his throat dry and his mind cloudy. He remembered enough—the desperate urge to protect Potter, and the chaos that had ensued, spiraling out of control.

Tom’s eyes softened further; an expression so rare that it momentarily took Draco by surprise. “No more apologies, my Heart,” Tom murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re alive, and that is all that matters.”

Tom’s hand, still resting gently on Draco’s forehead, trembled ever so slightly—an imperceptible quiver that betrayed the torrent of emotions lying beneath his calm exterior. “It was I who failed to protect you.”

Draco shifted, weakly lifting his hand to cover Tom’s, their fingers brushing in a silent exchange of comfort. “You did protect me, Tom,” Draco whispered. “You always do.”

Tom’s gaze darkened. “It wasn’t enough,” he murmured, as if the admission physically hurt him.

Draco blinked; his vision still hazy but clearing enough to see the fierce intensity in Tom’s expression. Despite the weight of exhaustion pulling at him, a faint smile tugged at the corners of Draco’s lips. “I’m still here, aren’t I? You got us out.”

Tom leaned closer, his lips brushing gently against Draco’s forehead in a gesture so sweet it nearly unraveled him. “Yes,” Tom whispered, his voice low and filled with quiet resolve. “But next time, you will stay standing by my side. Always.”

Draco let out a soft breath of amusement, even as a dull ache rippled through his chest from the effort. “Of course,” he murmured, already feeling the tug of sleep pulling him under. “Always.”

Before Draco could fully succumb to the comforting pull of sleep, a movement in the shadows caught his attention. His weary gaze shifted toward the far corner of the room, where Potter stood awkwardly, hunched, as if trying to blend into the background.

Potter’s face was a study of contrasts, shifting from confusion to embarrassment as he blushed under Draco’s study.

For a fleeting moment, Draco could see shock in Potter’s eyes, perhaps disbelief at the tenderness Draco and Tom had shared. It was clear that Potter had witnessed something he hadn’t been prepared for, and the man was struggling to reconcile it.

But that moment passed quickly. The delicate surprise in Potter’s face hardened into something sharp, something familiar—anger.

Draco watched, both curious and exhausted. Potter’s body was tense, radiating frustration as he took a step closer, no longer hiding in the shadows.

“You could’ve died, Malfoy,” Potter’s voice cracked through the quiet of the room, shaking with anger.

“You were reckless, stupid even. What the hell were you thinking?” Potter continued, his words sharper than a curse.

Draco blinked, caught between the exhaustion pulling him toward sleep and the fierce energy radiating off Potter in waves.

Even so, he felt Tom beside him, a steady presence, his fingers still threading through Draco’s hair with a possessive tenderness, as though anchoring him in place.

Tom remained unconcerned, his gaze fixed on Potter, but with the calm air of someone who could see beyond the hostility. It was as though Tom knew Potter’s fury was merely a mask for something more fragile—fear.

Draco’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk, the effort it took making the sharp pain in his chest nearly unbearable. “Gee, Potter,” he rasped, his voice weak but laced with his familiar sarcasm, “one might think you actually care.”

Potter’s jaw tightened, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him.

The smirk faltered slightly on his lips, and for a moment, the sarcasm slipped away. Draco blinked as the revelation struck. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Potter to care so much. And for a moment, all he could do was stare.

“You don’t get to do that,” Potter said quietly, but the intensity in his voice was unmistakable. “You don’t get to throw your life away like it doesn’t matter.”

Draco opened his mouth, the words forming on his tongue, but they wouldn’t come out. He didn’t know how to respond to that. The weight of Potter’s anger, laced with fear, made it impossible to brush it off with a joke, a sneer, or even more sarcasm.

“I…” Draco started, his voice cracking slightly. He swallowed, the fragility in the room suddenly too much. “I didn’t think it would… affect you so.”

“Of course it affects me, Malfoy,” Potter snapped, his voice tinged with exasperation. “You almost died. You could’ve—” He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, looking both frustrated and deeply unsettled.

"Do you have any idea how close you were, Malfoy?" Potter spat, turning to pace at the foot of Draco’s bed. "One more second and—"

"One more second and what, Potter?" Draco rasped, cutting him off, his voice sharper than intended. "You’d have had one less Malfoy to worry about?"

Potter’s face twisted. "I would’ve had one more person I failed to save, you insufferable git.”

Tom’s fingers paused, a slight twitch that betrayed his enjoyment of Potter’s outburst. Draco could feel it—the subtle current of smugness, the quiet pleasure his husband took in watching Potter unravel.

He opened his mouth to retort, but Potter’s anger rolled over him like a wave. "You think you can just throw yourself into danger like it’s nothing? Like your life doesn’t matter?”

“And yours doesn’t?” Draco managed to interject; his voice breathier than he had anticipated.

Potter froze, eyes flickering with something raw before he forced his face into that familiar, guarded expression. His fists clenched at his sides, and when he spoke, his voice was low, sharp. “That’s rich for you to say, Malfoy,” he growled. “You resurrected the one thing dead set on killing me.”

The accusation hit like a punch, but Draco refused to flinch. Instead, he blinked slowly, his chest aching with each shallow breath. He was too tired for this, too weak to argue properly, but something inside him stirred—something defensive, protective.

“Indeed? Are you calling Tom incompetent?” Draco retorted, each word punctuated by the ache in his chest, “that thing stood by your side as you burned the place to the ground, apparated you away in the last of seconds. What a tedious way of seeking to end your life.”

Potter’s jaw clenched tighter, his eyes narrowing as though searching for cracks in Draco’s accusation. The tension between them crackled like fire, and for a brief moment, Draco thought Potter might actually lash out—might close the distance and let his anger explode into something physical.

Draco could feel the subtle shift in Tom’s energy. His husband thrived on this—on the storm brewing between him and Potter, on the way each of Potter’s breaths came faster, more strained. There was a small smirk playing on Tom’s lips now, his fingers still ghosting through Draco’s hair.

“Careful, Harry,” Tom purred, his voice low and deceptively calm. “I have no wish to lay my hands on you in anger. But touch my husband, and I will be left with no alternative.”

Potter’s jaw clenched as he fought for composure, his shoulders stiffening as though preparing for a battle he desperately wanted to fight.

Tom’s amusement only deepened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Potter stepped back, still bristling but controlled. He had taken the bait, retreated just far enough to satisfy Tom’s unspoken challenge.

"That’s better," Tom murmured, his fingers resuming their gentle caress through Draco’s hair. "See, Harry? I’m not your enemy here. We both want the same thing—Draco’s safety."

Potter shot Tom a dark look, but he didn’t bite back. Instead, he turned his attention to Draco, the raw concern in his gaze now harder to mask. His lips pressed into a thin line as he studied Draco, taking in his pale face, the shallow breaths. Draco tried not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“You don’t get to do this again, Malfoy," Potter's voice, though quieter now, still carried the weight of pent-up frustration. “You don’t get to throw yourself in the line of fire.”

“I won’t have to if you don’t do anything Gryffindorish,” Draco quipped, relieved that his familiar sarcastic edge hadn't abandoned him entirely.

Before Draco could press further, the door to the room creaked open, and Astoria strode in with the exasperation of someone used to dealing with far too much chaos. Her sharp gaze scanned the room, catching the tension in the air, Potter’s still-clenched fists, and Draco’s telltale smirk.

She let out a deep sigh.

“Harry,” Astoria's voice was firm and direct. “This is a hospital, not an arena for your unresolved drama. My patient,” she glanced pointedly at Draco, “doesn’t need to be stirred up any further.”

Draco's smirk deepened slightly, but Astoria turned her piercing look on him before he could revel in his small victory. "And you, Draco—no more provoking him. You’re here to rest, not stoke fires."

Potter exhaled loudly, rubbing at his temples with exhaustion. "Look, I just—"

"Go home, Harry," Astoria interjected, her tone softening. "Your boys are ready to be discharged. They need you. And trust me, Draco isn’t going anywhere. He’ll still be here when you return.”

Draco grumbled under his breath at the thought of being stuck in a hospital, trapped with tasteless food and endless bedrest for Merlin knew how long.

Tom leaned down and whispered into Draco’s ear. “I’ll have Kripsy bring proper meals, don’t worry.”

A small flicker of relief washed through Draco.

Chapter Text

Dr. Elizabeth Curie sat on the edge of the sofa; her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her fingers had gone numb, but the discomfort was a welcome distraction from the suffocating stillness that filled the room.

The dim glow from a single lamp barely lit the drab, impersonal apartment. There was nothing in the room that spoke of life or warmth—just sparse, utilitarian furniture. A plain brown sofa, a low table, and a chipped bookshelf with nothing on it but dust.

The walls were a flat, uninspired beige, and the only sound came from the faint hum of traffic outside, muffled by thick curtains that seemed permanently drawn.

Everything about the room felt sterile, cold, as if it mirrored the woman—Vera she had called herself—who had brought her here.

Her rescuer.

Elizabeth could still hear her voice, the way her words had lashed out earlier.

"Thank you," Elizabeth had murmured into the awkward silence that had followed their arrival. It had felt like the right thing to say. "I didn’t think anyone was coming. I really thought—well, I owe you my life."

The sneer on Vera’s face had been immediate, her flat, cold eyes darkening, her lips curling in disgust. "Shut up."

Elizabeth had swallowed back her embarrassment, the chill in Vera’s voice enough to make her retreat into silence. She hadn’t expected comradery, but the venom in Vera’s tone had caught her off-guard, making her feel small, insignificant.

"You think I give a damn about you?" Vera had taken a step closer, her eyes narrowing with disdain. "I didn’t rescue you because I wanted to. If I want to get what I need I have to follow orders. Nothing more."

Vera had walked away after that, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on her chest.

Now, as she sat in the suffocating quiet, Elizabeth’s gaze flitted toward the doorway, where Vera had disappeared to. The faint clatter of a cup and saucer echoed from the other room, a distant sound of routine that felt strangely out of place.

The apartment itself was just as cold and indifferent as Vera. No pictures. No warmth. Just four walls, as lifeless as the woman who inhabited them.

Elizabeth’s eyes wandered toward a worn leather bag slung carelessly by the door. Its faded red color stood out, out of place against the neutral tones of the room.

Vera re-entered the room, carrying a single cup of coffee—only one. Elizabeth swallowed nervously, her eyes following the steam rising from the cup. Vera didn’t offer her any. She didn’t even look at her.

Vera was focused on her coffee, taking slow, deliberate sips as she sat. Her dark brown, almost black hair was falling in a curtain down to her chin, bangs falling into her dark eyes.

The small table between them felt like a chasm.

"Why?" Elizabeth’s voice trembled before she could stop it. "Why did you rescue me if you hate me so much?"

Vera’s eyes flicked up, sharp and unfeeling. "I don’t hate you. I just don’t care about you," she said.

The indifference in her voice stung more than any direct insult could have.

Vera set her cup down, the sound of it hitting the table louder than it should have been. "I didn’t have a choice. Orders are orders."

Elizabeth bit her lip, her mind racing. She couldn’t help but mutter, "It feels personal," immediately regretting the words as Vera’s eyes sharpened, narrowing on her.

Vera leaned back in her chair, a sneer tugging at the corner of her lips. "Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re important," she said, her voice casual but cutting. "You were a job. That’s it."

The cold truth of the words settled over Elizabeth, and though her therapist’s voice echoed in her mind—don’t take things personally—she couldn’t help it. There was something in the way Vera spoke, a bitterness that ran deeper than mere orders.

"I didn’t ask to be involved in any of this," Elizabeth said quietly, more to herself than to Vera. "I just wanted to help with the research. I didn’t know it would lead to—"

"Lead to what?" Vera snapped, cutting her off. "The real world? The consequences of your precious research? Not everything ties up neatly with a bow, Dr. Curie. Now shut up before you make it worse."

Elizabeth’s breath hitched as Vera stood, heading back toward the kitchen. She watched her pull out a takeout container and eat directly from it, standing in front of the fridge like Elizabeth didn’t exist.

“No, I didn’t think it would lead to Harry Potter taking my eye…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off, but it was enough.

Vera’s knuckles turned white around her food, the room growing colder as her eyes snapped up, burning with sudden intensity.

“See, now this is making it worse,” Vera growled, her voice dangerously low. “Do not speak about Harry Potter in my presence.”

Elizabeth flinched at the venom in her tone, her heart pounding as she struggled for words. "I didn’t mean—"

"You think you’re the only one who paid for this mess?" Vera’s voice was a barely restrained snarl, her fingers tightening around the container as though she were moments from crushing it. "You think losing your eye was the worst thing that could happen? It’s because of Harry Potter that my life was torn apart."

Vera’s eyes blazed with raw emotion, but she quickly tamped it down, her voice steadying. "But I’m not here to whine about it. And if you want to live long enough to get your revenge, you’ll keep his name out of your mouth."

“Oh.” Elizabeth swallowed, unsure of how to respond to that. She exhaled slowly, her mind racing. “Then what are you here for? It sounds like you’re just trying to survive the mess."

Vera’s eyes narrowed. "Survive?" she scoffed. Elizabeth flinched. "I’m not interested in surviving. I’m here to end this. For good."

"And then what?" Elizabeth pressed. "After you burn everything down, what’s left for you?"

For a moment, Vera’s expression faltered. There was a flicker of something—regret, guilt, or maybe just exhaustion—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She took a deep breath, her voice steady but hollow as she replied.

"That’s none of your concern."

~~~~~*~~~~~

Harry sat slumped in the armchair, the dim light of the fire casting flickering shadows across his face. His features were etched with exhaustion—deep lines carved into his forehead, dark circles hollowing his eyes, which were clouded with an unbearable weariness that clung to him like a second skin.

The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on his shoulders, dragging him into a state of helplessness he hadn’t felt since the war.

Back then, there had been a path, however treacherous. Now, it felt as though he was standing on the edge of an abyss, staring into a void that offered no answers. The clarity he'd once clung to had dissolved into shadows, leaving him here—adrift in a place that wasn't his, and never would be.

This wasn’t home.

Malfoy Manor had never been anything but a symbol of everything he had fought against. The cold walls, the grandeur, the very air he breathed here reeked of memories that weren't his to claim.

And yet, when Astoria had all but ordered him to leave, to bring his sons somewhere safe, this had been the only place that came to mind.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

It had taken until midnight for Albus and James to finally succumb to sleep. Pippy had flitted about with a soft efficiency, bringing the calming scent of lavender into the room and adding a few drops of calming draught into their hot cocoa.

Harry had stood in the doorway, watching as his boys curled up in the oversized bed, their small bodies nestled in the thick comforter that cocooned them in safety. He had envied them that momentary peace.

But he couldn’t join them. His body screamed for rest, every muscle aching, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Yet his mind was a battlefield, alive with a relentless storm of guilt, anger, and fear.

Each emotion crashed into the other, tearing him apart from the inside. His heart twisted painfully as his thoughts circled back to Lily, the hollow ache of her absence gnawing at him, deep and raw.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, but its warmth did nothing to soothe the chill inside him. The whiskey in his hand was no better—amber liquid swirled in the glass, catching the dim light, promising a reprieve it couldn’t deliver.

He took a slow sip, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction, but it couldn’t touch the hollow emptiness inside him.

The door to the boys’—his—room stood slightly ajar, and every now and then Harry walked in to hear the faint sound of their breathing, the gentle rise and fall that reassured him they were still there, still safe.

But it wasn’t enough. His thoughts always returned to Lily, to the unbearable question that clawed at his insides: Where was she?

His fingers drifted into his pocket, brushing against the two Hallows he held there. He twisted the stone between his fingers, his breath heavy.

It was dangerous, he knew that, but the temptation pulled at him. Maybe, just maybe, Ginny could give him the answers he so desperately needed. Maybe she could tell him where he'd gone wrong, how to find their daughter, how to fix the broken pieces of his life.

But as he turned the stone in his hand, nothing happened. No comforting figure appeared, no whispers from the other side. The stone remained inert, cold and unfeeling. Useless.

Frustration surged through him, sharp and bitter. He clenched his jaw, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. The urge to break something, to let the anger explode out of him, was almost overwhelming.

The universe had taken so much from him already—why couldn’t it give something back?

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He turned, his heart heavy as Hermione stepped into the study, her face lined with worry, the same concern that had been there for years etched deeply in her eyes. She had carried it for him since they were teenagers, that constant, unwavering support, even when he didn’t deserve it.

“Harry,” she said gently, her voice a soft balm against the storm inside him. She stepped closer, her eyes flicking briefly to the glass in his hand before resting on his face.

She didn’t ask what was wrong. She didn’t need to. It was written all over him—the loss, the pain, the exhaustion of a man who had carried too much for too long.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she continued, her voice steady, though the worry never left her gaze. She reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the moment, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.

For a moment, Harry didn’t speak. He just stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker. When he finally did, his voice was raw, barely more than a whisper. “What am I supposed to do, Hermione? How am I supposed to keep going when... when everything just keeps falling apart?”

Hermione’s grip tightened slightly, and she knelt beside him, her eyes soft, but unyielding. “You keep going because they need you, Harry. Albus, James… Lily. You can’t give up, not now.”

“Don’t let the darkness win,” Hermione whispered when he remained quiet, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive this too.”

But as the flames burned and the night stretched before him, Harry wasn’t sure he believed her. Not this time.

“I don’t know how to find her, Hermione,” Harry murmured, his voice thick with despair. His hand gripped the glass tighter, knuckles white. “I have no idea where to start. There are no leads, no plan.”

Hermione’s gaze softened even further, but she didn’t hesitate. Gently, she pried the glass from his hand and set it aside, sitting down on the armrest beside him. Her fingers curled around his, warm and steady, offering the strength he so lacked.

“That’s not true,” she said quiet but firmly.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Hermione drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly, as if preparing herself for what she was about to say. “I’ve been doing research, of course. The Malfoy’s have a very extensive library, it’s a shame they’ve been locked away from the wizarding world—”

“Hermione,” Harry sighed, unable to feign excitement over Malfoy’s book collection.

“Right,” Hermione adjusted her position on the armrest. “Well, I looked into the… unconventional methods of tracking someone. Ways that go beyond the usual spells and charms.”

Harry blinked. “Unconventional?”

Hermione bit her lip, her voice careful and measured. “The kind of magic I’ve been researching... it isn’t the type they teach at Hogwarts. This is older magic, ancient and, yes, dark in nature. Some of it involves blood magic. But if we want any chance at finding Lily, it may the necessary path.”

Harry didn’t speak right away, his mind working through her words. Hermione, misinterpreting his silence, rushed to continue.

“We're not dealing with people bound by the same moral compass, Harry. These are people who care nothing for right or wrong, only for control and dominance. If we want to stand a chance against them, we can’t afford to be limited by our principles. Not this time.”

Harry's gaze softened with a flicker of resignation, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, though it was more a grimace. “Hermione, you don’t have to convince me to break the rules. I would do anything—anything—to bring Lily back.”

Hermione gave a small, tight smile, squeezing his hand. “Right. I suppose I momentarily forgot who I was speaking to.” Her smile faded. “The problem is, the Trace wouldn’t help us. It’s not exactly a locator spell. The Trace monitors for magical activity around underage witches or wizards—and while Voldemort advised me that they have the ability to use the Trace for the detection of accidental magic, it’s not precise enough to attribute the magic to a specific individual.”

Harry frowned, deep in thought. “Lily was never marked with the Trace. It wouldn’t trigger, even if she were performing magic.”

“I thought of that as well.” Hermione nodded, her tone more cautious now. “Which is why I’ve been considering... something far older—Blood scribing. We could use your blood to form a direct link, a connection that would allow us to track her.”

Before Harry could respond, a soft, indulgent voice broke the silence.

“That would fail, of course.”

Harry stiffened, the familiar voice sending a ripple of tension through the room.

Voldemort stepped into the firelight, his curls catching the flames and reflecting hints of auburn. The light cast an almost beautiful glow over his features, but there was something unnerving about the sharpness of his smile. His teeth were too pointed, his gaze too intense, and his presence far too commanding for any real warmth to linger.

There was a tiredness in his expression, a subtle weariness etched into his features, but it did nothing to diminish the tall, striking figure that had just entered the room. Voldemort, even in this more human form, radiated authority. Every movement was deliberate, graceful, the room bending to his will with each soft footstep.

He moved with the ease of a man who had all the time in the world, circling them slowly, his footsteps barely audible as he passed. When he stopped by the desk, he leaned against it, folding his arms casually, his gaze never straying from Harry.

Voldemort’s voice was gentle, almost soothing, when he spoke again. “I’ve used blood scribing to search for Draco—your blood would be no different. Wards of that magnitude are impervious to such attempts.”

Harry clenched his jaw, his fingers brushing against the broken wand in his pocket, as if seeking comfort from its familiar weight. “Then what do you suggest?”

Voldemort’s smile deepened, his amusement clear. He moved closer, his shadow falling over Harry like a cloak. Leaning in slightly, Voldemort forced Harry to tilt his head upward. The proximity was suffocating, uncomfortable, and Hermione’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened.

“You already know, Harry,” Voldemort murmured. “But you’re too reluctant to use it.”

Harry’s breath caught as Voldemort’s gaze dropped to his pocket. The Elder Wand.

Voldemort remained close, his posture relaxed but commanding. “That wand… its power is far older than your magic. It can break through wards, shatter protections. But only if you’re willing to utilize it.”

The weight of the wand in Harry’s pocket seemed heavier than before, as though it sensed the gravity of Voldemort’s words. He glanced at Hermione, whose face had paled, her wide eyes filled with anxiety.

“You can’t be serious,” Hermione whispered, her voice tight. “The Elder Wand is broken. It’s too unpredictable. Even Harry—”

Voldemort’s soft smile widened—almost flirtatious— his eyes gleaming with something far too pleased. “Unpredictable?” he repeated. He straightened fully, his figure casting a long shadow over them. “Perhaps. But you, Harry… you hold all three Hallows, if I remember correctly. If anyone can control the wand, repair it, it is you—the Master of Death.”

Hermione flinched at the title, her unease clear. She bit her lip, glancing at Harry, then back to Voldemort. Her voice, though steady, was laced with tension. “And what, exactly, do you stand to gain from this?”

Voldemort’s gaze flicked to Hermione, his smile sharpening ever so slightly. “Oh, Miss Granger,” he purred, “you wound me. I seek nothing more than to see the boy succeed.” His words dripped with mockery, and though his expression remained charming, the sharpness of his smile left no doubt about the truth beneath.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Hermione’s hands trembled as she clutched Harry’s damp palm, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against her own steady fingers.

She could sense the shift in him—subtle, but unmistakable. His breath had quickened, and his eyes flickered between Voldemort and the fire, as though he were already considering what Voldemort had suggested.

No, Harry, she thought, her own heart tightening. Don’t let him pull you in.

Voldemort’s presence dominated the room, though he did nothing more than stand between the desk and Harry, smiling that all-too-polished smile.

His voice remained soft, persuasive. Too persuasive. His words oozed with charm, and even Hermione, who prided herself on being able to resist, found herself momentarily lulled by the calm cadence of his speech.

She glanced at Harry, feeling the sweat gather on his palm. His jaw was clenched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Hermione knew this was how it started—this was how Voldemort worked. A flicker of doubt, a seed planted in Harry’s mind, and soon, he would question everything. He would question his own resistance, his own will.

"Harry," she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand. “The wand is too dangerous. Even if you find a way to repair it, how certain could we be that it would function as intended.”

Harry was not listening, his gaze far away as he started into the flames. Her skin prickled as she noticed Voldemort’s gaze lingering on the way Harry bit his lip. “You don’t have to do this. Think of Albus, James—”

“Think of Lily,” Voldemort interrupted smoothly, his words cutting through Hermione’s as if she hadn’t meant to finish her sentence at all. “What does your morals matter, Harry, if your daughter is lost forever?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with an emotion Hermione rather not see. "The wand is yours to master, yours to wield. Is it your pride that holds you back, or something else?"

Hermione bristled, anger surging through her, but she forced herself to stay composed. “You’re twisting the truth, as you always do,” she shot back, though her voice wavered slightly. "This is exactly what you want—for him to break, to fall into your trap. For him to give you the Elder Wand."

Voldemort's expression barely shifted, but the amusement in his eyes writhed. "I merely offer the boy a solution," he said softly, his gaze drifting back to Harry as though he were the axis around which everything turned. “Harry, you know what needs to be done. You feel it. The Elder Wand can break through their defenses—Lily is only a wand’s reach away.”

Hermione’s heart clenched as she felt Harry’s hand twitch in hers. She could see him wavering, could see the temptation.

No—he wouldn’t, not after everything. “Harry, please,” she whispered, her voice urgent, desperate. “Don’t listen to him.”

But Voldemort’s eyes lingered on Harry, that maddening smile never leaving his face. "She’s waiting for you, Harry. All it takes is one choice."

“Harry,” she urged, her voice firm but trembling at the edges. “You don’t have to do this. Claiming the Hallows… it’s dangerous. We know what they did to Antioch and Cadmus.” She swallowed hard. “The Hallows aren't tools of salvation, they’re... they’re a path to ruin. You wield them, but at what cost? They’ll twist you, make you something you don’t want to be.”

“Or,” Voldemort’s fingers hovered near Harry’s forehead, just inches from touching the loose curl that had fallen over his eyes. It was as though he was resisting the temptation to brush it aside. “They’ll give you the strength you need to save her. All it takes is one choice, Harry. One step, and she’ll be back in your arms.”

She felt her stomach twist with unease. There was something profoundly wrong in the way Voldemort spoke to him, as if he were offering more than power. Something unspoken but deeply manipulative, dangerous in a way she couldn’t quite put into words.

But Voldemort’s smile deepened, his fingers still hovering near Harry, as though the next move—whatever it was—was Harry’s alone to make. “It’s not weakness, Harry, to want the power to save her. It’s love. And love deserves to be defended, no matter the cost.”

“Love,” Harry muttered, his voice distant, as though the word itself was slipping away from him, lost in the flickering flames before him.

His eyes were glazed over, hollow with exhaustion, and for a long moment, he seemed disconnected from everything around him.

Hermione could feel him slipping further away, the pull of Voldemort’s words still lingering in the air like a poisonous fog.

Then, finally, Harry blinked, his gaze snapping back into focus. When his eyes met Voldemort’s, the shock of their proximity jolted him, and he pressed himself further into the cushions, startled.

Hermione repressed a small sigh of relief, her heart pounding in her chest as the tension began to ease—just a little.

“I...I need sleep,” Harry mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face, as though trying to shake off the weight of the conversation, the temptation that had clung to him so tightly just moments before.

Voldemort’s smile softened, his eyes still lingering on Harry, but he said nothing, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw something flicker behind his gaze—disappointment? No, it wasn’t it.

Whatever it was, Voldemort stepped back gracefully, allowing the distance between them to return.

“Of course,” Voldemort said smoothly, his voice almost indulgent, as though humoring Harry. “Rest, my Soul. You’ll need your strength for what lies ahead.”

That pet name—my Soul—slipped from his lips again like a lover’s murmur, sending a chill down Hermione’s spine. She swallowed hard, disgust and unease crawling through her.

My Soul. As if Harry belonged to him.

She glanced at Harry, hoping he would recoil at the intimate name, but he still looked lost, weary. Too drained to realize how dangerous the line was that Voldemort was coaxing him toward.

“Come on, Harry,” she whispered, urging him out of the chair and toward the door, desperate to get him away from Voldemort’s influence, even if only for a few hours.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Voldemort had returned to the hospital to spend the night at Draco’s bedside. His body remained anchored in the hard, unforgiving chair, unmoving, as Draco slept fitfully beside him.

The steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest should have provided some semblance of comfort, but instead, it left a gnawing tension beneath Voldemort’s skin. His husband’s recovery was excruciatingly slow, and though Voldemort had conquered death itself, the helplessness that came with watching Draco’s fragile state was unsettling, something that gnawed at the edges of his tightly held control.

As dawn’s pale light crept through the hospital windows, the familiar weight of his other obligations pressed heavily on his shoulders. The world beyond this room still required his attention, his influence. His control.

With a reluctant sigh, Voldemort rose to his feet, the dull pull of responsibility drawing him inexorably toward the Ministry.

He glanced down at his wristwatch—an anniversary gift from Draco, polished white gold catching the morning light. The sight of it gave him pause, a brief flicker of troublesome sentimentality. He had time. There would be enough of it for a stop at Malfoy Manor.

As he arrived in the grand hall, the overcast morning light filtering through the arched windows, he could hear the distant sound of laughter and shouting. It reverberated faintly through the stone walls, a clashing discord in the otherwise immaculate silence of the Manor.

Briefly, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

The noise grew louder as he walked toward the dining room, each step calculated and deliberate, the thought of retreat an enticing one.

But no—this was his home. These were his… children, at least the boys. He had committed himself to their protection. His presence was necessary, regardless of the… chaotic energy that seemed to pervade the house.

When he entered the dining room, the scene before him was nothing short of domestic anarchy.

Miss Granger sat at one end, attempting—and failing—to keep her daughters seated at the table. The youngest girl was swinging her legs wildly beneath her chair, a half-eaten piece of toast clutched in one hand as she giggled loudly. The eldest girl was busy buttering anything within arm’s reach, including, it seemed, the table itself.

Albus and James sat near Harry, their posture more restrained but their eyes alert, observing the mayhem with a kind of quiet, subdued sort of bemusement, picking at their breakfast without truly eating anything.

And then, of course, there was a cat—he couldn’t care to remember its name—sitting in its own chair, a small bib tied around its neck as the beast was fed morsels of food like some pampered monarch.

Voldemort stopped in the doorway, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he very seriously considered turning around and walking straight back out. This—whatever this was—did not fit in his world of precision and control.

And yet he couldn’t leave.

He remained still, almost rigid, as though proximity to the disarray might somehow draw him in. His gaze flickered over the scene before him, a swirl of noise and motion. This... family. The word felt foreign on his tongue, uncomfortable.

These children—Harry’s boys—he supposed they were his. His responsibility.

A frown tugged at his features as he forced himself to stay rooted in place. He refused to admit, even to himself, that leaving would be a defeat.

So, he remained where he was, his eyes narrowing as the youngest girl—Minerva, he thought he recalled—flung a particularly large piece of scrambled egg across the table with alarming accuracy. It narrowly missed Albus, who looked unfazed, as though this were a common occurrence.

Voldemort’s gaze darkened. He might not know how to handle children, but surely this level of chaos couldn’t be considered normal.

Sighing internally, the sound of his own exasperation reverberated through his mind like a dull echo.

His father had chosen absence, retreating from the discomfort of family life as though it were beneath him. Voldemort, however, would not make that same mistake. He would not repeat the cowardice of a man who had shirked responsibility—regardless of how distasteful the notion of familial obligation had become.

And though he accepted this reality, that didn’t mean he knew how to engage with it. The thought of participating in this… domestic chaos was absurd.

There was no guidebook for this sort of interaction, no spell to soften the jarring edges of this newfound role. And he certainly wasn’t about to lower himself by asking how one made small talk with children, of all things.

He had mastered magic beyond comprehension, unraveled the deepest mysteries of the universe, and ruled over death itself.

Yet this—this mundane, chaotic battlefield—left him utterly unarmed, without any of the tools that had made him powerful. It was a different kind of danger, one that felt far more unsettling than any duel he had ever fought.

At that moment, Minerva launched her spoon, scattering eggs across the table with a careless abandon that left Voldemort momentarily speechless. One particularly unfortunate piece hit the cat, who shot her a reproachful glare as though even it had standards. Another glob landed on James’s sleeve, unnoticed by the boy until Harry, his expression caught between fatigue and mild exasperation, began wiping at it with a napkin.

Miss Granger opened her mouth, no doubt to scold the child for her lack of decorum, but her voice was swallowed by the disarray. Harry grimaced, his movements slow and resigned, as though already too worn down to enforce any real discipline.

Voldemort stepped forward and into the room, his mere presence immediately quieting the chaos—not through words, but through the sheer gravity of it.

The air in the room seemed to still, and the children paused mid-movement, their wide eyes flicking toward him as though drawn by an unseen force. Even Harry and Miss Granger looked up, their faces marked with a sudden suspicion that had not been there a moment ago.

"Are they always this… lively?" Voldemort asked, his tone measured and deceptively calm, yet it carried a weight that could bend iron.

For a split second, there was silence. Then, both Harry and Miss Granger froze, their expressions shifting as one. The glower they shot him was as sharp as a blade, and for a brief, disorienting moment, Voldemort found himself startled by the fierceness of it.

Their reaction was not what he had anticipated. He had made an observation—a harmless one, or so he thought—but the fire in their eyes was unmistakable, a silent threat that felt more visceral than any hex.

"If you hurt them, I swear I will—" Miss Granger began, her voice fierce and trembling with protective instinct. She trailed off, perhaps realizing that Voldemort had not actually issued a threat, but the danger in her tone lingered, heavy and unmistakable.

Harry’s eyes flashed with a similar warning, his hand twitching reflexively toward the wand that wasn’t there. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. The intensity of their reaction, given the circumstances, was almost amusing. He allowed his gaze to drift, pausing on the youngest girl—who was clutching her spoon, already winding up to throw another egg—and then at the eldest, who had, at some point, begun covertly adding butter to her hot cocoa.

"Very well," Voldemort intoned, his voice cool, the barest hint of amusement curling at the edges. "They may proceed."

The youngest girl giggled, delighted, as though she had just claimed some great victory over him.

The cat, affronted by this descent into anarchy, looked deeply offended, while James shot Voldemort a wary glance—uncertain whether to laugh or be alarmed that the Dark Lord had just granted his cousins permission to indulge in further chaos.

Voldemort took his seat at the far end of the table, his posture regal, his expression a mask of neutrality. Yet, as he surveyed the scene before him—eggs now precariously close to his own cutlery, the cat visibly sulking—he couldn’t help but question the wisdom of remaining in this madhouse a moment longer.

Voldemort had barely settled into his seat when a small, visibly distressed house-elf appeared beside him, clutching a silver tray as though it might shield him from the chaos around him.

The elf's eyes darted nervously between the children and the Dark Lord, and in a high-pitched squeak, he offered, "Tea, Master? Perhaps... breakfast?" His voice trembled with the unmistakable fear that comes from navigating such volatile waters.

Voldemort gave a single, measured nod, and the elf hurriedly placed a delicate china teacup and saucer before him, followed by a modest plate of toast and fruit. The elf's hands trembled as he poured the tea, a single drop spilling onto the saucer, causing the elf to flinch. Voldemort let it slide graciously as Draco would have wanted him to.

“Thank you, Kripsy,” Voldemort said with a tone so even that it was hard to determine whether it held menace or indifference. The elf nodded furiously and vanished with a snap of his fingers, no doubt eager to escape the dining room’s disarray.

Voldemort lifted the cup to his lips, eyes narrowing as the children continued their antics. He took a deliberate sip, as though this small ritual of tea-drinking might offer some reprieve from the chaotic energy surrounding him. The boys, to their credit, were quieter, but even they were not immune to the underlying mischief of the morning.

“How’s Malfoy doing?” Harry's voice broke through the murmur of activity, his tone measured though carrying a thread of concern.

It pleased Voldemort.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Voldemort when he remained silent, briefly meeting his gaze, before lowering to his own tea.

Voldemort set his cup down gently, as if weighing his answer. "Recovering. Slowly. It will take time, but he is... resilient."

There was a moment of silence, heavy with the weight of the unspoken. Miss Granger gave Harry a quick, sidelong glance, as if gauging his next words, but Harry remained quiet, his fingers curling around his own cup, blowing slowly over the steam rising from his tea.

"And how are you faring?" Miss Granger asked, her tone cautious but sincere, her eyes sharper than her words.

Voldemort’s gaze flicked toward her, momentarily surprised by the courtesy of her… concern, despite her clear disdain for him—a sentiment he returned in full. "I manage as I always do, Miss Granger," he said, his voice soft, almost contemplative, though utterly devoid of warmth.

The witch opened her mouth, perhaps to respond, but before she could, a shallow knock echoed from the doors. Miss Howard appeared, tense and uncertain, her gaze flickering over the scene.

“My Lord. I didn’t realize you were… in the middle of something. I can come back later,” she said after a hesitant bow of her head.

Voldemort’s gaze shifted toward her, and though his expression remained neutral, there was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “No need, Miss Howard. Do join us.”

The suggestion, though wrapped in polite words, was unmistakably a command. Miss Howard, wisely, obeyed, sitting cautiously among the chaos. She shifted uncomfortably under the children’s curious stares and Miss Granger’s contemplative gaze, clearly out of place.

Voldemort remained seated, his fingers slowly curling around his teacup as he studied her with cold, calculating eyes. The children resumed their chaos, oblivious to the growing tension.

After a long pause, Voldemort’s voice cut through the noise. “Miss Howard, I trust you have… updates on our current situation?”

Miss Howard stiffened, her gaze darting from Voldemort to Harry, ignoring Miss Granger altogether. “Yes, my Lord,” she said quietly, her voice strained. “Though I regret to say the intel from our previous operation… was less precise than we anticipated.”

Harry glanced up from his tea, eyes narrowing, but refrained from commenting. Voldemort’s fingers tightened briefly around his cup, the faintest twitch of his hand betraying his displeasure. He did not look away from Miss Howard.

“Yes,” he said, his tone calm, gaze unrelenting. “Less precise. You do realize that your… oversight nearly cost us dearly.” The accusation hung heavy in the air.

Miss Howard swallowed hard, visibly wilting under his scrutiny. “I—I didn’t have all the necessary information at the time. The reports indicated minimal resistance, but—”

“And yet,” Voldemort interrupted softly, “it was far from minimal, wasn’t it?”

Harry cleared his throat, his jaw tight. “She’s doing her best, Voldemort. These situations don’t always go according to plan.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Indeed, they don’t.” He watches as Harry took a sip of his tea. “But when lives as valuable as these are at stake, one would hope for a more… calculated approach, wouldn’t you agree?”

Miss Howard’s fingers tightened around the edge of her chair as he turned toward her again. The weight of Voldemort’s gaze pressed into her, but with the children present, he would do nothing.

He wouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of using Crucio—not here. Not now. Though the thought crossed his mind more than once, and the faintest hint of a frown tugged at his brow as he suppressed the desire.

The youngest girl’s cat chose that moment to jump onto the table, its bib still securely tied around its neck as the creature padded across the table with an animalistic grace, stepping gingerly between plates and glasses.

To Voldemort’s displeasure, it made its way toward him. Without hesitation, the beast perched on his lap as though he had invited it, curling comfortably into the fabric of his robes.

A silence fell over the room, the children’s wide eyes fixed on him with a mix of awe and terror. Even Harry and Miss Granger seemed frozen, their attention shifting from the cat to Voldemort, clearly wondering how he would react.

He almost cursed the thing. His fingers twitched, and the familiar urge to rid himself of the annoyance bubbled up. But instead, with deliberate control, Voldemort raised a hand and began petting the beast, his movements slow and calculated. The room remained suspended in breathless silence.

“What’s important is that we move forward, and we learn from this. Next time,” Miss Granger finally disrupted the quiet, pointedly ignoring Voldemort’s simmering anger, “we’ll ensure we’re better prepared.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked toward Miss Howard, narrowing slightly as the spy’s shoulders tensed, the corners of her lips curled downward with distaste at Miss Granger’s address. “Well, Miss Howard? I do agree with Miss Granger. Next time, indeed.”

Miss Howard nodded quickly. “Yes, I will ensure the next operation runs far smoother, my Lord. I apologize for the missteps—”

“I’m sure you do,” Voldemort murmured, his voice silken. “Though I’d recommend, Miss Howard, that you refrain from allowing such missteps to happen again. I trust your abilities are more… refined than this?”

Miss Howard’s face paled, and she gave a stiff nod. “Of course, my Lord.”

Chapter Text

“Go on,” Voldemort flicked his wrist, gesturing for Miss Howard to proceed as he poured himself another cup of tea, ignoring the food untouched before him.

Miss Howard swallowed, her fingers clutching the edge of her chair as though it were a lifeline. “There’s been an increase in Muggle activity, my Lord. After the facility in York burned down, they’ve expanded their operations—particularly regarding magical children.”

The word "children" had barely left her lips when the scraping sound of a chair interrupted her. Minerva stood; the light scrape of her shoes a rhythmic pattern as she approached Voldemort. A pear in hand, she moved with an innocent confidence, oblivious to the tension in the room.

Without a word, she held the fruit out to Voldemort.

He blinked. For the first time in the conversation, Voldemort was momentarily at a loss. The table fell silent, eyes fixed on the scene. Harry and Miss Granger seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see how the Dark Lord would react to such casual impertinence.

Voldemort’s gaze flicked from the pear to the girl’s wide, innocent eyes.

“I don’t like pears. They taste weird,” she told him, her voice confident and soft. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Minerva placed the fruit into his hand and climbed onto the chair beside him, plucking the cat from his lap and settling it into hers as though Voldemort’s personal space was of no consequence.

The silence was palpable. Harry moved, perhaps to retrieve his friend’s daughter, but a sharp flick of Voldemort’s hand stilled him.

Instead of ordering the child away or demanding her removal, Voldemort simply set the fruit on his plate. He allowed himself a quiet exhale before turning his attention back to Miss Howard.

“You were saying?” he prompted, his voice smooth, almost lazy, though there was a treacherous undercurrent lurking beneath his calm.

Miss Howard, visibly unnerved by the young girl’s boldness, hesitated before forcing herself to continue. “The Muggles are advancing faster than anticipated. They’ve established operations near three more magical settlements. We’re tracking a lead on potential—”

Minerva’s hand shot out again, plucking a cherry from Voldemort’s plate. Voldemort's jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, his fingers twitched, the urge to unleash Crucio sharp in his mind. But instead, he drew a shallow breath, mastering his impulse.

He slid his plate toward Minerva, who seemed to take this as permission to feast on his breakfast. His appetite was, after all, long gone. He fixed his gaze back on Miss Howard, his voice low and sharp as a blade.

“And Dr. Curie? What of her involvement?”

The air thickened with Miss Howard’s hesitation. She shifted in her seat, her gaze darting toward Harry as though searching for an unspoken answer. “I have… very little information on Dr. Curie’s current role. She’s been minimally involved, my Lord. Not active in the field.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering beneath his composed façade. “Little information,” he repeated, the words almost a hiss. “That is not an answer I find satisfactory.”

Miss Howard paled, her hands twisting in her lap as if trying to wring out the tension. “I—I’ll have clearer information by this afternoon, my Lord,” she stammered.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her, icy and unrelenting. He let the silence stretch, watching her squirm beneath the weight of his scrutiny.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Three o’clock, Miss Howard. And ensure it is clearer.” His gaze sharpened, as if piercing through her thin defenses. “Failure is not an option.”

She remained frozen in her seat, waiting for his dismissal. Voldemort watched her with cold detachment, savoring her discomfort for just a moment longer.

“You may go,” he said finally.

Miss Howard practically leaped from her seat, nearly stumbling in her haste to leave the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and for a brief moment, Voldemort considered whether she would be a flight risk.

He would deal with that soon enough.

“She doesn’t like you,” Minerva observed, her small voice breaking the silence, as if discussing the weather. She had finished all of Voldemort’s cherries and was now eyeing his toast. He bit back a sharp retort, his fingers tightening around his teacup.

“Minnie!” Miss Granger’s voice rose, her face pale with rising panic.

Voldemort savored the surprised shock on Miss Granger’s face when he responded evenly. “You are quite perceptive for your age, Minerva.”

“I prefer Minnie,” the girl replied, her tone so matter-of-fact that it startled Voldemort. He blinked at her brashness, wondering if perhaps his legendary presence had lost its edge, if even a child was unafraid of him.

“Very well… Minnie.” He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her preference. He didn’t miss the way Harry’s lips curled into a faint smile. Voldemort felt a small, odd sense of accomplishment.

When Harry finally spoke, it was with an edge of anxiousness. “What do you think she’s hiding?”

Voldemort’s gave the Savior a thin smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. “We shall see.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

The hospital room was dimly lit, the tangy scent of potions wafting through the air with the soft rustle of curtains as Hermione entered quietly. Malfoy lay in bed, his features sharp against the white linens. His hand rested atop the blanket, fingers flexing slightly as if testing his own strength.

Hermione hesitated at the door for a moment, unsure if he would prefer solitude, before he turned his head slightly, his gray eyes meeting hers.

“Granger,” he greeted, his voice steady but subdued. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “I wanted to check on you. How are you feeling?”

Malfoy shifted slightly. “I’ve had worse,” he said lightly, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. “A mere flesh wound… nothing to fuss over.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she stood beside his bed. “Downplaying your injuries? Now that’s something I didn’t expect.”

Malfoy’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine, really. You’ve seen me in worse shape.”

Hermione hummed softly, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside him. “I’m afraid I haven’t. This has been bad, and I’d rather not see you like this again, Malfoy.”

For a moment, there was silence between them, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air.

“Chastising me, are you? You might as well start calling me Draco, we make a good team after all.”

Hermione eyed the array of potions on the bedside table as she considered his offer.

“Alright,” she finally replied, “then feel free to call me Hermione. Considering you haven’t called me Mudblood once in the last decade.”

“Not that I’ve had much opportunity to. There is always time for it now,” Draco grinned though it soured when he twitched in pain.

“I am jesting,” he said quickly. Draco’s eyes flickered with something—regret, perhaps, or acknowledgment of their shared past. “Old habits,” he said with a faint smile, though his voice was tinged with an almost imperceptible sadness. “I’m trying to leave them behind.”

Hermione’s gaze softened as she studied him. “You’ve come a long way,” she said quietly. “We both have.”

There was a companionable silence for a moment, one where Draco was clearly considering her sincerity and found it true.

“So, Hermione, what is your real reason for your visit?” He smiled again, a boyish grin if it weren’t tinged with pain.

Hermione sighed, gaze flickering to the potions again. “When are you due for your next pain potion?” She asked instead.

“Hermione, spill it, stop trying to avoid the conversation. I can tell you have something on your mind.” Draco chastised her, waggling a finger at her and immediately regretting that decision. “Bloody hell…in 10 minutes.”

“Okay, I will keep it short.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself against this conversation and the potential backlash she would receive—from Draco or the Dark Lord himself.

“I’m concerned about Harry. Deeply worried,” Hermione began, her voice low but earnest. “It’s not just the obvious dangers, Draco. It’s… Voldemort.”

She paused, exhaling slowly before continuing, her eyes fixed on the floor as she gathered her thoughts. “I know he’s your husband, and I know things between you have changed… but I can’t shake this feeling that he’s going to hurt Harry. Maybe not in the way we’ve come to expect—even I can admit he has evolved into…someone else. But I see it in the way he looks at Harry, the way he speaks to him.”

Her hands twisted together in her lap as she spoke, her anxiety becoming more damning. “There’s this undercurrent, this tension. Voldemort still has an enormous amount of control, and I don’t trust that it won’t turn dangerous. Harry might not even realize it… he’s changed too—after everything. He’s vulnerable in ways I don’t think he wants to admit, and I don’t know if Voldemort sees that as something to exploit…”

Finally, she looked up at Draco, her eyes pleading. “I’m not asking you to choose between your husband and your… well, whatever it is you and Harry are. But I need to know that you won’t let him get hurt, Draco. Not again. You know Harry—he’s always too willing to take the burden on himself. Please, don’t let that happen this time.”

Draco shifted slightly against the pillows, his face growing still as he absorbed Hermione's words. The sharpness in his eyes, always quick to be contentious, softened for a moment, revealing something beneath the surface that rarely showed—a vulnerability carefully tucked away behind years of guarded arrogance.

"Hermione," he began, his voice measured, "I understand why you’re concerned. I know what he—what we—have done in the past. But…" He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "Tom... he's not the monster he once was. I've watched him change—slowly, painfully, but it’s real. The hunger for power, the need to destroy... it doesn’t consume him anymore. He’s learned to want something else."

Hermione’s brow furrowed, skepticism churning through her, but she remained silent, waiting for Draco to continue.

"I won’t deny what he was capable of—and still is. Not to you," Draco said, voice low, acknowledging the weight of Voldemort’s past actions. "But things have… improved. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve seen it." There was no bitterness in his voice, only a quiet conviction. "For the past ten years, I’ve watched him become someone else—someone who values more than immortality and control."

He paused again, eyes flickering with emotions Hermione wasn’t used to seeing in him—honesty and compassion.

"He won’t hurt Harry. Not now. Not after everything. And neither will I," Draco added, his voice firm. "I know you don’t trust him, and I can’t say I blame you. But you have my word. If I ever thought he was going to harm Harry, I would be the first to stop him. I won’t let anything happen to him, Hermione."

"You really believe that," Hermione said quietly, more a statement than a question.

Draco nodded carefully, his gaze unwavering. "I do. Tom’s different, Hermione. He won’t hurt Harry. And I won’t let him, if I’m wrong."

"If I have to fight him to ensure Harry remains unharmed, I will do so," he declared, his voice low and fierce.

The door to the hospital room swung open. Astoria was carrying a tray with several small vials. Her sharp eyes fell on Draco first, then swept to Hermione with a quick smile.

"Not in this condition you won’t," Astoria said, matter-of-factly. "Time for your potions, Draco. And take them this time—you’re being a pain in my… rare." She winked when her gaze flickered to Hermione, her lips curving into a teasing smile.

Hermione blinked, caught off-guard. A warmth crept up her neck, a flush spreading across her cheeks as her eyes involuntarily lingered on Astoria.

Despite the stark green robes of her Healer’s uniform, Astoria’s beauty was undeniable. Strands of her brown hair had escaped the confines of her bun, curling softly around her face.

For a moment, Hermione found herself distracted, captivated by the way the light seemed to catch the gentle waves of Astoria’s hair. She quickly averted her gaze, her fingers nervously twisting in her lap as she tried to regain her composure.

Astoria, seemingly unaware of Hermione’s flustered reaction, sat the tray down on the bedside table and handed Draco one of the vials. "Here," she said, her tone firm but affectionate. "Drink up."

Draco grimaced but obediently took the vial, downing its contents with a reluctant sigh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving Astoria a half-hearted glare. "I’m fine, really."

"You’re not fine," Astoria countered, rolling her eyes. "If you were fine, you wouldn’t be here. Now behave, or I’ll make Hermione here hold you down while I force a double dose down your throat.”

Hermione stifled a smile at their banter, feeling a curious warmth in the air between them. There was an ease to their relationship, a natural rhythm that made her feel… unexpectedly at ease herself.

Astoria turned to Hermione, her eyes softening as she caught the last traces of Hermione’s blush. “I hope he’s not bothering you too much,” she said. “I know how stubborn he can be.”

Hermione shook her head quickly. “No, not at all,” she replied, her voice a little too quick, too eager to seem composed. “I was just… checking in.”

Astoria’s smile widened, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. There was something disarming about Astoria—her confidence, her humor, the way she carried herself with such grace.

"Good," Astoria replied smoothly, her gaze lingering on Hermione before she turned back to Draco. "Because I’d hate for him to scare off all his visitors. He needs all the help he can get."

Draco groaned in mock annoyance, but a small, affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Astoria moved gracefully around the room, her fingers lightly brushing the curtains as she pulled them open, allowing the soft glow of spring sunlight to spill in.

The fresh air that followed carried the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth, instantly breathing life into the previously dim and sterile room. The golden light danced across Draco's pale face, and he closed his eyes briefly, seemingly soothed by the warmth.

Astoria hummed softly as she tidied up the bedside table, her movements efficient yet delicate. She barely glanced at Draco, perhaps knowing the combination of potions would soon lull him to sleep. As she finished, she turned halfway through the door, her hand resting on the frame.

Pausing for a second, her voice came softer than before, almost hesitant. "I was about to take my tea break," she said, turning to Hermione with a small, shy smile. A faint blush dusted her cheeks. "Would you like to join me?" She glanced at Draco, already looking past drowsy. "I’m sure Draco will be asleep within the minute."

Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat, her gaze shifting to Draco. His eyelids had already begun to droop, the potions working quickly to drain the tension from his body. He gave her a half-hearted wave, muttering, "Go on, Gra-mione. I won’t be any fun in a few minutes anyway."

Hermione smiled at his words, standing from her chair. "Alright, if you're sure," she said lightly, then turned to Astoria, her pulse quickening slightly at the sight of the hopeful shimmer in Astoria’s eyes.

Draco grumbled something unintelligible as he shifted under the covers, already halfway asleep, and with a quiet laugh, Hermione followed Astoria out of the room.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The small tea nook in St. Mungo's was tucked away, quiet, and separated from the hustle of healers and patients. Astoria led Hermione into the space, where the clinking of teacups and hushed conversation were a welcome reprieve. She gestured toward a small table by the window, which overlooked a modest courtyard, the spring air filtering in gently through the charmed windows.

Astoria moved with easy grace, her hands deftly setting the teapot between them. Hermione hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to help, before sitting across from her.

"How do you take your tea?" Astoria asked kindly, as she poured the warm, amber liquid into delicate cups. The soft sound of the tea pouring filled the air.

“Milk, no sugar, please,” Hermione responded, her voice slightly uncertain, as though she wasn’t entirely used to the quiet domesticity of the moment. Astoria smiled lightly, adding the milk before sliding the cup toward her.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the morning slipping away as the steam curled lazily from their cups. Astoria's hair was curling out from the bun she kept attempting to tame it into, the soft tendrils framing her face, giving her an almost ethereal appearance.

Hermione finally broke the silence, clearing her throat quietly. “I wanted to thank you. For saving Harry, I mean. At the beginning of all this, you didn’t have to help him. But you did, and I—well, I’m grateful.”

Astoria looked at her for a moment before she laughed, clear and genuine. “Of course, I would help him, Hermione. I’ve always admired Harry’s bravery and dedication. That didn’t change just because I wore Slytherin colors.”

Hermione returned the smile, relaxing a little more into her seat, taking a small sip of her tea. “I suppose I forget sometimes. People’s alliances aren’t as simple as House divides.”

Astoria chuckled. “You’re right about that. There’s always more beneath the surface.”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to the delicate pattern on her cup, her fingers tracing it idly. The earlier conversation with Draco weighed on her mind, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“I had a conversation with Draco earlier,” she began, carefully. “I’m still worried about Harry. About Voldemort. I told Draco, but… it’s hard to shake the feeling that something’s going to happen. The way Voldemort looks at Harry—it’s too intense, too…intentional.”

Astoria listened quietly, nodding as she placed her cup down. “I can understand why you’d feel that way, especially after the horrors of the war. But, if I may be honest…” She leaned in slightly, her voice soft but certain. “I don’t believe Harry’s in danger. Not from Voldemort.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Astoria offered a small smile before continuing. “May I confess something?”

Hermione nodded, her curiosity piqued.

“Draco has always cared for Harry. Admired him, even, before he really knew him. There’s always been something about Harry that drew Draco in—even when they were teenagers.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise, but before she could speak, Astoria went on.

“I know Voldemort’s past makes it hard to believe. But there’s one thing I’m certain of: Tom is devoted to Draco. And he would never hurt anything that Draco loves.”

Hermione choked on her tea, the liquid catching in her throat as she sputtered. “Loves?” she stammered, her cheeks flushing as she tried to compose herself.

Astoria’s smile turned playful, her green eyes twinkling. “Oh, 'Mione,” she teased, and Hermione’s heart gave a little jump at the sound of such familiarity. “You’re the smartest witch of your age. Surely, even you must have noticed.”

Hermione’s face turned a deeper shade of pink, her thoughts scrambling. She opened her mouth to respond but found no words, her mind racing to reconcile the idea that Draco had… admired Harry for years—and that Voldemort’s affection for Draco could somehow be the key to protecting Harry.

Astoria’s laughter was light, almost musical, as she took another sip of her tea, her earlier blush still faintly coloring her cheeks. “Don’t worry. It’s not as complicated as it sounds,” she said with a reassuring smile.

For a moment, the mood shifted, her tone growing more serious. Astoria set her cup down delicately, meeting Hermione’s gaze. “But trust me, Hermione,” she said delicately, her eyes clear with conviction. “You and Harry have more allies than you think. I’d even go so far as to say you're safer with Voldemort than without him.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the weight of the statement. Astoria’s words weren’t spoken in jest—there was a quiet certainty in them that stirred something within her—trust.

“You really believe that?”

Astoria nodded. “I do. Voldemort… Tom may have been a force of chaos, but that was a long time ago. He’s different now. For Draco, for himself… and maybe even for Harry.” She hesitated for a moment, glancing at Hermione with an almost wistful look. “It’s hard to believe, I know. But sometimes the greatest protectors come from the most unexpected places.”

Hermione’s heart ached with conflicting emotions, but before she could reply, Astoria stood gracefully, giving her a kind, knowing grin. “I’m sure you’ll come to see it too. But for now, enjoy the tea. It helps with clarity.” She winked, leaving the words hanging in the air as she turned to leave.

“Oh,” Astoria turned back one last time, her eyes kindhearted but mischievous as she grinned at Hermione, “don’t mention this to Draco. He is too daft to realize it himself.” Her laugh was beautiful as she walked away.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The grand office was cloaked in darkness, the dim light of a few scattered torches casting long, flickering shadows across the black marble floor. Voldemort sat at his desk, a monolith of obsidian and serpentine carvings. His fingers, long and claw-like, drummed rhythmically against the smooth surface, his gaze distant, as the door opened with a soft creak.

Miss Howard entered, her steps tentative, her breath hitching with restrained fear. She bowed her head deeply as she approached the desk, the soft click of her heels echoing in the room's silence.

"Miss Howard," Voldemort’s voice was a low hiss, almost a whisper, yet it filled the room with an undeniable presence. He did not look at her. "You’re late."

Miss Howard swallowed hard, her voice faltering. “My Lord, I—”

"What do you have to report?" Voldemort interrupted, flicking his wrist dismissively. He poured himself a cup of tea from an elaborate silver pot, though the tea remained untouched. His fingers curled around the delicate cup, more as a prop than anything else, his full attention now fixed on the woman before him.

Miss Howard’s hands fidgeted at her sides, her knuckles pale as she clenched them. “Today, Miss Howard. What do you know of Dr. Curie?”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but for a moment, no words came out. She blinked, stalling. “I…Dr. Elizabeth Curie is a researcher employed by the Salem Project. She was originally in charge of the facility from which Harry Potter escaped, after he…mutilated her.”

Her voice wavered on the word, and Voldemort’s eyes gleamed dangerously, but he let her continue.

“She was transferred to the facility in York per her own request a week ago. After the fire, she was reported missing, presumed dead by the public. However, her body was not identified amongst the ruins.”

“And…?” Voldemort’s voice cut through the air like a blade. The rage within him simmered, bubbling like acid beneath the surface.

“She… After her disappearance, the Salem Project has her location classified as ‘SH,’ meaning she is in a safe house, location undisclosed,” Miss Howard finished, her voice barely a whisper now.

Voldemort’s lips twitched into a cruel smile, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “So, you are telling me that you do not know where she is?”

Miss Howard nodded hesitantly, her eyes darting away for the briefest of moments, fear etched into every line of her face. Sweat glistened on her upper lip, her heartbeat quickening in the silence that followed.

Slowly, Voldemort rose from his chair, placing the teacup down with a soft clink. His pale, bony hand hovered above his wand for a moment before his fingers wrapped around it.

The wand hummed with anticipation, sensing its master’s growing fury and Voldemort relished in the power coursing through him.

Voldemort moved quietly around the desk, his feet barely making a sound on the marble floor. His tall figure loomed over Miss Howard as he came to stand before her, his cold eyes narrowing.

“That is not an answer I find... satisfactory.” His voice was a quiet, deadly whisper.

Before she could respond, Voldemort’s wand lashed out. “Crucio.”

Miss Howard’s scream filled the room, loud and raw, echoing off the stone walls. Her body convulsed violently as she collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

Voldemort watched, unblinking, the curse sustained with a flick of his wrist. His gaze remained steady, detached, as though her suffering were a mere inconvenience.

After what felt like an eternity, he lifted the curse, leaving her gasping and trembling at his feet. Her breath came in ragged sobs, her body broken by the weight of the pain.

Voldemort crouched, lifting her chin with an icy, clawed hand. His fingers grazed her skin, dangerously close to cutting into her flesh. Her wide, terror-filled eyes reflected the serpentine slits of his gaze, and his breath chilled the air between them.

“Do not lie to me again,” he whispered, his voice like venom. “Or next time, I will break your mind.”

For a heartbeat, the room stood still, the only sound her ragged breathing. With a swish of his wand, Voldemort plunged into her mind, her defenses weakened by the curse.

The world around him dissolved, and he was inside her memories—no passive observer but a predator hunting for truth in the corridors of her mind. The mental landscape was murky at first, swirling fragments of fear and desperation.

She tried frantically to keep him out, to hide something from him as he rifled through her memories for any revolving around Dr. Curie. Carelessly, he broke down barrier after barrier until the vast expanse of her mind laid bare before him.

Then memories began to take shape.

Children playing. A yard was alive with the sound of laughter.

The sweet scent of lavender bushes filled the air, mixing with the earthy smell of freshly cut grass. The sun shone down warmly, casting dappled light through the branches of a large oak tree.

Two blonde girls, young and carefree, chased each other across the yard. The eldest’s laughter rang out as she waved her small hand, the leaves from the tree transforming into delicate fairies, their iridescent wings fluttering with a faint buzzing sound. The younger girl clapped her hands in delight, her wide eyes reflecting the magic in the air as she reached out to touch one of the tiny creatures.

The warmth of the sun on her skin, the feel of soft grass underfoot, the smell of flowers in bloom—it was a memory filled with innocence, joy untainted by the harshness of the world.

The scene shifted abruptly.

Kings Cross Station.

The clamor of people surrounded them. The scent of steam, leather, and metal filled the air as the Hogwarts Express hissed on the platform. The noise of families calling out their goodbyes blended with the rhythmic clatter of luggage being hauled onto the train.

The youngest stood on the platform, tears streaking down her cheeks. She waved frantically, hiccups shaking her small frame as she tried to keep the eldest in view.

Who, sitting by the window, smiled weakly, her hand pressed against the glass in a farewell, though her own tears glistened in the corner of her eyes. The train pulled away, the distance between them growing as the figures on the platform became smaller and smaller.

Another shift—darker now.

The younger girl—now a teenager—stood in the corner of a dimly lit room, her back pressed against the beige wall of their home.

Her father stood above her, towering and furious, his face red with rage. The harsh light of the overhead lamp made his expression grotesque, shadows stretching his features into something monstrous.

"You’re a failure. Worthless!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and bitter. "Why can’t you be like Claire!"

Claire, her features now familiar, stood at the edge of the room, her heart racing, her body frozen in place. She wanted to move, to protect the younger girl, but fear held her rooted to the spot. The drone of the television from the living room only intensified the horror, the laughter of the sitcom in the background a jarring contrast to their father’s venomous tirade.

The youngest trembled, her head bowed low, tears filling her eyes. She said nothing. She couldn't. Her father's fury was too overwhelming, the shame he heaped upon her too much to bear.

And then, another memory.

The house had grown cold, the once warm light now dull and lifeless. The air was thick with dust, the scent of decay lingering in the fabric of the old furniture.

Their father, dressed entirely in black, stood by the mantel, his face contorted in disgust. His voice, though quieter now, was filled with spite. "You’re no better than them," he spat, pointing a trembling finger at Claire. "A witch. Just like them. Just like your mother."

Claire stood tall, her hands trembling slightly by her sides, her eyes filled with quiet defiance. "I am who I am," she said softly, her voice steady.

Their father’s face twisted with rage, his fists clenching at his sides. "You’re a stain on this family!" His voice cracked with the force of his anger, filling the empty house with the echo of his hatred.

Voldemort tore himself from the memory, his mind snapping back into the present with a violent jolt. His chest rose and fell with barely suppressed fury as his gaze settled on Miss Howard’s trembling form, still crumpled on the floor before him.

“Interesting,” Voldemort murmured, his voice dark and laced with contempt. "Very interesting."

“You are very good at your job, Claire,” Voldemort spoke softly, as though he was truly complimenting her and Claire whimpered, tears streaking her cheeks as she blinked up at him. “You never told me you had a sister.”

“My Lord,” Claire’s voice was barely audible, fear and desperation clinging to every word. “Please!”

Voldemort didn’t care for her pleading, didn’t care for the way the woman broke apart on his marble floors.

He simply stepped around her, ignoring the pitiful pile she made and opened the large doors, turning to his secretary who stood shaking behind her desk.

“Eloise,” he said kindly, though his fury still laced his voice. “Would you please be so kind and have this mess removed from my office?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Eloise nodded furiously, voice trembling.

He shifted from his serpentine features to those of Tom Riddle and strolled down the hallway. “Oh and have Headauror Ron Weasley informed that his fiancée is a traitor.”

Chapter Text

Harry wandered deeper into the archives; his footsteps slow, almost aimless. The shelves towered around him, endless rows of books, scrolls, and dark magical artifacts. The room was cavernous, the air thick with age and power.

Strange items whispered and hummed, their magic pulsing faintly in the back of his mind as if they had minds of their own.

He’d been down here for what felt like hours, losing track of time as they searched for something—anything—that could help track Lily through the wards.

The floor beneath his feet shifted subtly, uneven as if even the stones were ancient, worn by centuries old magic. Harry’s gaze flitted over the shelves, barely focusing, lost in his own thoughts.

The Department of Dark Magics and Artefacts reminded him too much of the Room of Lost Things at Hogwarts—a place where forgotten and dangerous things went to be hidden. Though this one, he supposed, was not covered in soot and rubble.

In the background, he could hear Hermione and Voldemort. Their voices drifted through the aisles, surprisingly civil but still sharp with disagreement.

“Marital bonds have been used for control long before they became romanticized, Miss Granger,” Voldemort’s voice was smooth, amused. “Why wouldn’t their origin lay in the Dark Arts?”

Hermione scoffed in response, her voice firm. “The magic is based on the strength of commitment and mutual sacrifice. It isn’t just a tool for power.”

The sound barely reached his ears. He was too distracted, following his instincts as he strolled past rows of objects, their labels unreadable or written in ancient runes.

He found his mind drifting to Voldemort and Malfoy—their bond.

How had it come about? Was it strategic, forged out of necessity, or had there been something more beneath the surface? The thought gnawed at him. The idea of Malfoy—who had once been almost his friend, as ridiculous as that would have sounded to sixth year Harry—now bound to this…man was something Harry still hadn’t fully come to terms with.

A faint hum caught his attention.

Harry turned toward the sound, his eyes falling on a small, intricate object nestled on one of the shelves. It was nothing like the rest of the artifacts—no larger than a Snitch, though pearl white and ominous in a way that drew him in.

It was made of bleached bone, its surface etched with thin, delicate lines that seemed to shift when he looked too closely. It vibrated faintly, as if it were alive. Its pull was undeniable.

Without thinking, Harry reached out. His hand hovered just above the artifact, the air between his fingers and the object crackling with magic. The hum grew louder, almost like a heartbeat, syncing with his pulse.

For a second, everything else faded—the conversation behind him, the ancient shelves, even the weight of his search for Lily. All that existed was this small, throbbing object, calling to him with a kind of innocent allure.

Just before his fingers made contact, a hand darted out and closed around his wrist.

The touch was firm but gentle, the skin cool against his own.

Harry froze.

He hadn’t even heard anyone approach. His heart stuttered in his chest as he realized Voldemort standing behind him, his breath warm against the back of Harry’s neck. He cursed himself for having tied his hair up, leaving the skin there exposed and vulnerable.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Voldemort murmured, his voice low. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

Harry blinked, trying to clear the sudden haze from his mind. He turned, finding himself face to face with the monster in human form, and was struck by just how close Voldemort truly was.

Too close. Far too close.

Voldemort’s wine-red eyes gleamed in the dim light, holding Harry’s gaze with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. Voldemort’s expression was inscrutable, but there was a flicker of amusement in those scorching eyes, as though he relished his subtle advantage of the moment.

Harry’s throat went dry. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t move.

His hand was still trapped in Voldemort’s grasp. The Dark Lord’s fingers were long and elegant, deceptively gentle as they held Harry’s scarred wrist.

He could feel the warmth of Voldemort’s body so close to him, the air thick. Harry’s back was pressed against the edge of a shelf, surrounded by artifacts that whispered warnings. But it wasn’t the danger of the objects that had Harry’s pulse racing.

Fuck.

“Do you know what this does?” Voldemort asked softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, dangerously close to Harry’s ear. Harry felt the vibration of the words more than heard them.

Harry swallowed, unable to pull his gaze away from Voldemort’s. His mouth felt parched as he struggled to form a coherent thought.

Why is he so bloody close?

“I—no,” Harry managed to rasp, his voice hoarse. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat feeling like it was shaking his whole body.

Voldemort’s smile widened ever so slightly, a glint of delight in his eyes. “It is the wizard’s way of giving the kiss.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, struggling to keep his thoughts coherent. “It… sucks out the soul?”

A soft, almost indulgent chuckle escaped Voldemort as he tilted his head slightly, considering Harry’s question. His thumb moved in idle circles over the back of Harry’s hand, the gentle motion an unsettling contrast to the danger lurking below that touch.

“Not quite,” Voldemort finally murmured. “It creates a path to another’s soul, leaving them exposed. Vulnerable to whoever wields the artifact.”

Harry blinked, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. “To control them, then? Like a marionette?”

Voldemort’s smile widened, the barest hint of condescension in his gaze. “To destroy them, piece by piece. What better reason is there to access a soul?” His laugh was soft, almost… gentle, as if they were speaking of something trivial rather than unspeakable.

“To heal it?” Harry’s voice was hesitant, a flicker of hope that was extingished even before Voldemort responded.

“Oh, my Soul,” Voldemort purred, his tone dripping with mockery, as though Harry’s kindness was an endless source of amusement. “How quaint you are.”

Voldemort shook his head, a faint, almost affectionate chuckle escaping him as though he found Harry’s suggestion both naive and endearing. The sound sent a cold ripple through Harry’s chest, a reminder of the twisted reality he was caught in.

Harry wanted to step back, to wrench his hand free, but Voldemort’s grip, though not forceful, was an anchor, keeping him frozen in place. There was a challenge in the way he held Harry, as if daring him to break the contact, to shy away.

Their eyes remained locked, the space between them charged with a danger. And then, just as Harry’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, he heard a soft clearing of a throat.

Hermione.

The moment shattered like glass.

Voldemort smoothly released his hand, stepping back with a casual grace, as though nothing unusual had happened.

His expression remained serene, but Harry caught the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. Without a word, Voldemort turned, leading the way further down the aisle, his dark robes swishing behind him.

Harry stood there for a moment, trying to regain his bearings, his heart still pounding in his chest. He could feel the echo of Voldemort’s touch lingering on his skin, as though the Dark Lord had left more than just the imprint of his hand.

His mind raced to catch up with what had just happened, but his body remained rooted to the spot, unwilling—or unable—to move.

Then he felt it: Hermione’s gaze on him—sharp, probing, and layered with unspoken thoughts. It wasn’t just concern in her eyes, though he could sense that too. There was something else. Something that worried him.

She stood stiffly, her arms crossed, her fingers gripping her sleeves as though holding herself back from saying something she knew she shouldn’t.

Her expression was tight, a frown etched between her brows, but her eyes... They flicked to Voldemort’s retreating figure before settling back on Harry, a mixture of disbelief, suspicion, and—alarm?

She didn’t say a word, but the question in her gaze was impossible to ignore.

What the hell are you doing?

But Harry couldn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer—not for her, not for himself.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, as though she had pieced together something that even Harry hadn’t begun to grasp. And so, he finally took a step, following the Dark Lord further into the rows filled with dark magic, leaving Hermione behind.

He didn’t glance back, but he could feel Hermione’s gaze on him like a shadow, watching—waiting—for the moment everything would inevitably fall apart.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Ron had a bad feeling as he stormed down the corridors of the Ministry, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His Auror robes whipped behind him, brushing the stone floors as he pushed past startled employees. Each hurried step seemed to wind the tight coil of anxiety in his gut, twisting it harder and harder. His heart slammed against his ribs, the creeping edge of nausea rising with every second.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“I have a meeting with the Dark Lord,” he barked as he reached the receptionist’s desk. Her quill stilled mid-air, ink blotting the parchment beneath her trembling fingers. The young witch’s eyes were wide, nerves evident in the way her hands fluttered like trapped birds.

“He summoned me,” Ron added, impatient, watching her fumble.

She barely managed to stammer, “About that, Head Auror Weasley, Sir…” Her voice quivered, barely audible. She looked afraid, small, like a child facing an incoming storm.

Ron dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He didn’t have time for this. Before she could utter another word, he shoved the heavy doors open. They swung inward with a creak that echoed through the cold, empty room.

It was vacant.

The silence hit him like a wave, pressing in from all sides. The shadowed space felt enormous, oppressive. His stomach twisted sharply, his dread turning to lead in the pit of his gut.

Something was definitely wrong.

He whirled around, his eyes narrowing on the receptionist who had followed him, her hands twisting nervously at her sides. She was speaking again, her voice rising in that same high-pitched tone of desperation.

“Headauror Weasley, please—”

“Where is Voldemort?” Ron snapped, his tone harsher than he intended. His patience, already worn thin, was gone. The knot in his chest coiled tighter, curling and twisting until it felt like it might strangle him from the inside.

The young woman flinched, her wand lifting shakily, though she clearly wasn’t going to use it. Her fear was palpable.

“Mister Weasley,” she squeaked, raising her chin slightly, her lips trembling. Her eyes darted to the side as though she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. “Your fiancée… she’s in the dungeons.”

Ron blinked, the words not registering immediately. “I’m not looking for Claire,” he snapped, irritation spilling over, though confusion crept in. Why was she talking about Claire when he needed to find—

“No,” the receptionist’s small hand darted out, gripping his elbow with surprising firmness. Her eyes were wide with regret as she whispered, “Your fiancée… she’s the traitor.”

The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Ron froze. The world around him spun violently, the steady hum of Ministry life fading into an unrecognizable blur. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, deafening in his ears, drowning out everything else. The receptionist’s voice became nothing more than a distant echo.

No. Claire? A traitor? No.

“No,” Ron muttered, but his vision swam, the edges of the room blurring, narrowing in on those words—traitor, fiancée, dungeons. “No, that’s… that’s not possible.”

The walls seemed to close in, the ground tilting beneath him. Panic seized his chest, clawing its way up his throat. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. It felt like someone had sucked all the air from the room, leaving him stranded in a suffocating void.

His legs trembled beneath him, the weight of the news pressing down on him like a mountain. The truth—or the lie—he couldn’t tell anymore. Everything was spiraling, spinning wildly out of control.

“No,” he croaked, barely audible now, the disbelief and pain tangling in his chest, suffocating him. His hands shook violently as he clutched at the doorframe, knuckles white from the strain.

Claire. A traitor. Claire.

The very thought made his stomach churn, sickening him. His fiancée, the woman he had trusted, loved—was now branded a traitor. She had betrayed him. Betrayed his sister, his sister’s children. Betrayed everything they had fought for.

“Sir?” The receptionist’s voice was faint, barely registering as she knelt beside him, her wand steadying his body as he slid to the floor, unable to support his own weight. “Sir, should I call a healer?”

Ron couldn’t hear anything over the deafening rush of blood pounding in his ears, over the sickening reality crashing down on him.

“This is… bullshit,” he growled, his voice raw, shaky as he pushed the glass of water she offered away. His denial came in a rush, burning through the panic. “There’s no way. No fucking way!” His teeth clenched. “She’s my fiancée—five years, damn it. I would’ve known.”

He forced himself to his feet, stumbling, but refusing to fall. His face twisted with fury, his hands clenching into fists. “Fucking Voldemort,” he snarled, his voice trembling with rage. “He’s a liar. A bloody liar!”

Denial took root, solidifying his resolve.

Voldemort was playing games. He had to be. It was manipulation, a cruel trick. And Ron wasn’t going to fall for it. Not this time.

He stormed out, barely hearing the receptionist’s mention of Voldemort’s whereabouts, the weight of the truth—or the lie—still clawing at his chest. Claire wasn’t a traitor. She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t betray him.

He wouldn’t believe it.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Ron didn’t stop running, didn’t even slow down as he tore through the corridors of the Ministry. His chest burned, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the red-hot fury coursing through his veins kept him moving.

Employees leaped out of his path, startled as he shoved past them, knocking papers and files from their hands, ignoring the startled cries and scowls shot his way. None of that mattered.

He was headed to The Department of Dark Magics and Artefacts —a place he despised more than anywhere else in the Ministry. A twisted mockery of everything the wizarding world had once stood for. A department born from the ashes of Voldemort’s reign, now legitimized, operating openly as though the darkness it housed could ever be normal. The very thought twisted Ron’s gut with disgust.

He reached the heavy doors and didn’t bother slowing down, slamming them open with such force that they hit the stone walls with a resounding thud. His wand was already drawn, his hand shaking with fury as he stormed into the archives, eyes searching for the Dark Lord.

It wasn’t hard to find him.

Voldemort sat in a plush armchair, leisurely flipping through a massive, ancient book, looking for all the world like this was a calm afternoon in a private study, rather than the den of darkness it truly was.

Across from him, Harry hovered a small, strange artifact between his hands, his eyes focused, deep in thought. Hermione sat nearby, leaning casually against Harry’s chair, legs crossed, her face buried in a small book of red leather.

The moment Ron burst into the room; all sets of eyes turned toward him—except Voldemort’s. The Dark Lord didn’t even flinch, his expression one of complete disinterest, as though Ron were nothing more than a fleeting breeze.

Harry’s brow furrowed, as though he was confused. “Ron? What—?”

Ron didn’t wait for him to finish. He raised his wand, his voice shaking with fury. “You bastard!” He leveled his gaze at Voldemort, the words barely coherent as they spilled out. “You’ve set her up! Claire is innocent! Release her, now!”

Voldemort turned a page of his book, still not looking up. The sound of the paper shifting was the only response.

“Release her!” Ron screamed again, advancing forward, his wand trembling in his hand.

Harry stood now, daring to step closer. “What are you talking about?” His tone was edged with concern, but Ron heard it as betrayal.

Hermione stood too; her hands raised in a calming gesture. “Ron, slow down. Tell us what’s happening.”

But Ron refused to listen. His chest heaved with anger, his vision blurring red with rage. “You’ve lost it, Harry!” he spat, his voice trembling. “Siding with the Dark Lord? Practicing this—this dark magic? You’ve finally turned after all. Is this your revenge, then? For me not going with you to the Muggle World all those years ago? Is that it?”

Harry’s eyes widened, his confusion deepening. “Revenge? Ron, I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’re a traitor!” Ron bellowed, cutting Harry off, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might burst. “You and Hermione—you’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed everything we fought for! You’re no better than him!”

He didn’t even realize what he was doing until the curse was already forming on his lips. “Diffindo!”

The blast of magic shot from his wand, aimed directly at Harry, but it never reached him.

With a flick of his wrist, Voldemort deflected the spell, sending it crashing into the wall behind them. The force of the deflection cracked the stone, but Harry remained untouched.

That’s when the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Voldemort’s eyes, once disinterested, were now fixed on Ron, his gaze cold and lethal. His lips curled into a dangerous scowl. “You dare,” he whispered, his voice deathly quiet, the air around him crackling with darkness. “You dare raise your wand against Harry Potter?”

Before Ron could react, he felt it—the force of Voldemort’s magic slamming into him like an invisible wave. His body seized up, his muscles locking, freezing him in place. He could still see, still feel, but his limbs were no longer his own. The pressure forced him down, onto his knees, and though he tried to fight it, he couldn’t move.

Voldemort stood, slowly, his movements deliberate, his towering form casting a long shadow over Ron. “You are fortunate I am not in the mood to end your miserable existence here and now,” he said softly, his voice like ice. “The bureaucracy of it is tiresome. But make no mistake—if you ever threaten what belongs to me again, Headauror Weasley, your life will be forfeit.”

Ron’s mind screamed, a raging storm of fury and helplessness surging through him, but his body was paralyzed, locked in place by Voldemort’s unrelenting magic. His breathing grew shallow, each breath a struggle as the weight of the magic pressed down on him.

He barely registered the words when they left Voldemort’s mouth.

“What belongs to you?” Harry's voice cut through the silence like a blade, and Ron, even in his fury, could hear the anger behind it.

Harry stepped forward, his face tense with controlled frustration. “Release him.”

Voldemort didn’t move, but his gaze flickered toward Harry, something unfamiliar flashing in his red eyes. “He attacked you. There must be consequences for such disrespect.”

“He’s my friend,” Harry shot back, his voice firm, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. “Let him go.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, but after a long moment of unbearable silence, he lifted the spell with a flick of his hand.

Ron gasped as his limbs were freed, collapsing forward as the invisible hold on his body released him. His mind was still a storm of fury, betrayal, and humiliation, but his body was too exhausted to lash out again.

“He doesn’t know what’s going on,” Harry continued, stepping between Ron and Voldemort, his gaze still locked with the Dark Lord’s. “Don’t blame him for this.”

If Ron weren’t as shaky, he would have retched from the subtle shift in Voldemort's eyes. Cold fury made way for the same delicate… adoration the monster reserved for the Malfoy bastard, though his tone was as cold as ever. “You are far too forgiving, Harry.”

“There is nothing to forgive him for,” Harry responded tightly, “Let him see Claire. He deserves to hear her side.”

Voldemort’s expression shifted, the sharp edge of his anger fading slightly as he stepped back. “Very well,” he said softly. “But know this, Headauror Weasley—threaten what is mine again, and there will be no mercy.” His gaze slid to Harry for a brief moment, before turning back to Ron.

“Again. not yours,” Harry hissed, before he knelt beside Ron, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Ron, I had no idea about Claire. We didn’t set her up. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together.”

Hermione joined them, her eyes filled with concern as she knelt beside Ron as well. “We’ll go see her,” she said quietly. “Right now.”

Voldemort, his patience waning, gestured toward the door. “Then go. Ask her yourself, Weasley. She’s in the dungeons. Perhaps you’ll find the answers you’re so desperate for.”

Ron, still trembling with anger and disbelief, managed to push himself to his feet, his gaze burning into Voldemort. But there was nothing more to say. Not yet. His mind was a mess of accusations and denials, but somewhere deep inside, a kernel of doubt had taken root.

And it terrified him.

Without another word, Harry and Hermione flanked Ron as they left the archives. He almost felt like a prisoner himself.

Chapter Text

The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows over the ornate furnishings. Draco’s body was still aching from the injuries, the quiet ticking of the clock in the corner his only company. His gaze wandered idly over the ceiling, thoughts churning restlessly despite the exhaustion pressing down on him.

It was in these quiet moments, with no distraction from the world outside, that his mind inevitably returned to the same, troubling thoughts.

Thoughts of Potter.

It wasn’t that Draco had ever truly hated Potter—not in the way he hated other people, other things. Their rivalry at school had been intense, sure.

Personal, even.

But hate? No.

Not in the way he had come to understand it as he got older. There had always been something more, something sharper, under the surface.

He sighed softly, shifting uncomfortably beneath the sheets. His body still protested every movement, the pain a constant reminder of what had happened.

Harry Potter.

It had always been Potter, hadn’t it? No matter how much time passed, no matter how much he tried to bury those feelings, they resurfaced, unbidden, at the most inconvenient times. Like now, as he lay here, injured and vulnerable.

And then there was Tom.

Tom, who had been his anchor in the storm for so many years.

Tom, who had saved him, protected him, loved him in a way Draco had never thought he deserved.

But Tom wasn’t the only one anymore.

Draco's heart clenched, the guilt gnawing at him as his mind drifted once again to the way Potter had looked at him recently—concerned, protective, almost tender. It was ridiculous. It was impossible. Harry Potter was the savior of the wizarding world. The hero. The light to Tom’s darkness.

And yet...

The door creaked open softly, and Draco didn’t need to look to know it was Tom. The air shifted, the familiar, steady presence of the Dark Lord filling the room, bringing with it a strange kind of comfort that Draco had come to depend on.

Tom hesitated at the doorway, his eyes scanning Draco’s form, clearly assessing his injuries. "You should be resting," Tom said softly, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

Draco managed a faint smile, the exhaustion making his words softer than he intended. "I am resting. I just... can’t seem to stop thinking."

Tom’s brow furrowed as he approached the bed. "Thinking will only aggravate your pain. What is it you need?"

Draco hesitated, his gaze flickering to the side. He felt foolish, childish even, for what he was about to ask. But the need for comfort—real, physical comfort—overwhelmed his pride. "Will you... hold me?"

For a moment, Tom was silent, his expression unreadable. Draco knew he was assessing the situation, weighing the risks. But then, with a barely audible sigh, Tom sat down on the edge of the bed, his movements slow, careful. "Are you sure?" His voice was quieter now, tinged with something more uncertain than Draco was used to.

"Yes," Draco whispered, his eyes closing as he leaned back against the pillows. "Just... please."

Tom hesitated for only a second longer before slipping into the bed beside Draco, adjusting the blanket as his arms carefully wrapped around him, mindful of the bandages still wrapped tightly around Draco’s torso. The warmth of Tom’s body was immediate, soothing in a way Draco hadn’t realized he’d craved.

It wasn’t long before he felt the soft press of lips against the crown of his head, gentle, lingering, as though Tom feared any sudden movement might shatter him.

"Rest," Tom murmured, his voice a low hum against Draco’s temple.

Draco closed his eyes, his body relaxing into Tom’s hold. But despite the comfort of the embrace, his mind refused to be still.

He felt Tom’s fingers idly tracing along his arm, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the pattern of his skin

It wasn’t that he loved Tom any less. He had given so much of himself to this man, and in return, Tom had given Draco the one thing he had craved above all else: safety.

But Potter... Potter was something else entirely. Where Tom was the constant, the unshakable force that had kept Draco grounded for years, Potter was chaos, unpredictability, fire.

And despite everything, despite knowing better, Draco was drawn to that flame, willing to get burned.

Draco exhaled softly, feeling Tom shift beside him. He felt the warmth of Tom’s breath against his neck, the faint scent of ink, bergamot, and something darker lingering between them. It was a scent Draco had long since associated with care.

"Thank you," Draco murmured, his voice quiet, barely audible over the soft rustling of the sheets.

"For what?" Tom asked, his lips grazing Draco’s hair once more before resting against the curve of his skull.

"For this," Draco replied, his eyes still closed. "For understanding."

Tom hummed in response, the sound vibrating softly against Draco’s skin. His fingers continued their slow exploration, tracing the faint scars along Draco’s arms, mapping the terrain of his body in the growing dark.

It was almost too tender for the man Draco had once feared, but over time, he had come to know this side of Tom—the one that was reserved for moments like these.

"You’ve always been worth protecting," Tom whispered, his voice a low murmur.

Draco’s throat tightened at that, the care in Tom’s words hitting him harder than he expected. He felt a soft kiss pressed against his temple, a lingering touch that made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And for now, that was enough. The turmoil in his heart could wait. Right now, in this moment, he had Tom. And that was enough.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The flames flickered sparsely, casting long, wavering shadows that danced along the cold stone walls, as though even they were uncertain, holding their breath. The air pressing into her lungs was thick with mildew and despair, each breath heavy, like swallowing damp rot.

She had screamed for the Dark Lord to hear her, her voice a desperate plea that echoed in the oppressive cell. She had begged into that silence until her throat was raw, her lips split and bleeding. But no one had come. Not even Ron.

Her lids burned with exhaustion; Her head throbbed relentlessly, each pulse a sharp stab behind her eyes, as if the pain was trying to drive her into madness. The hopelessness clawed at her chest, tightening its grip around her heart with every minute she spent alone in the darkness.

The wards on her shackles were merciless, rendering her magic useless. For the first time, she truly understood the helplessness that the witches and wizards must have felt in those Muggle laboratories, stripped of their power, bound, and silenced. The terror of that realization clawed at her, a deep, festering wound that she couldn’t heal.

They’re going to leave me here.

She was too dehydrated for tears, but the burning sensation remained, a dull ache at the corners of her eyes as if her body still wanted to weep despite its exhaustion. The thought hit her like a blow—If she was lucky, she’d face a trial. If not...a life in Azkaban awaited her—soulless, hopeless.

“It wasn’t me,” she whispered, her voice rasping like sandpaper against her throat, barely louder than a breath. She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the flickering torches or herself. “I didn’t do it. I swear it.”

She rocked on her knees, back and forth, her movements slow and trembling, as though trying to lull herself into some semblance of comfort. “I didn’t do it,” she repeated, her voice cracking under the weight of the lie she couldn’t escape. The flames flickered mockingly, as if they found her pitiful declaration amusing.

With a trembling sob, she pressed her forehead against the cool, damp stone floor, the rough surface easing some of the burning behind her eyes. “I would never…” Her voice faltered, swallowed by the oppressive air around her, leaving her words unfinished.

Then, the sound she dreaded—the slow, reluctant creak of the cell door—cut through the thick, oppressive silence. It groaned as if unwilling to open, as though even the dungeon itself didn’t want to offer her a glimpse of the world beyond.

“Claire,” Ron’s voice trembled, uncertain, as if he feared what he might find. It wavered with doubt, like he was asking if it was truly her, or some twisted Boggart masquerading in her skin.

Claire didn’t answer. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, her nails digging into the cold stone beneath her, bracing for the inevitable blow.

“Claire, what did you do?” His voice cracked, strained with disbelief.

She shook her head, her tangled hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding her from his gaze. She didn’t dare breathe, her entire body curled in on itself, trembling like a cornered animal.

His footsteps echoed in the cold space, each one a sharp reminder that he was getting closer. The sound of his boots striking the stone made her flinch, her breath catching in her throat as her fear transported her back to her childhood.

Then, his hand landed on the back of her head. Claire tensed, waiting—waiting for the grip, the pull, for him to yank her up and force her to look into his accusing eyes.

But the blow never came.

Instead, Ron’s fingers moved gently, brushing her tangled hair away from her face with a care that seemed at odds with the accusation in his voice moments before. “What did you do?” he repeated, his words softer now, though no less pained.

“I didn’t,” Claire rasped, her voice barely more than a croak, rough and broken from hours of screaming into the void.

Desperation clawed at her as she tried to force the words out. “I wouldn’t. I—never…” Her sentences faltered, falling apart before they could take shape, dissolving into breathless sobs. No matter what she said, it would never be enough. He wouldn’t believe her. No one would.

“Shh,” Ron mumbled, his hand stilling for a moment, then resuming its slow, soothing movement, fingers carding gently through her hair. “Take a breath,” he commanded softly, though there was an edge of pleading in his voice, as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the truth or silence.

Claire tried—she really did—but the breath wouldn’t come. Every attempt to draw air felt like drowning, her lungs refusing to work no matter how hard she fought.

She could feel eyes on her, a burning gaze that seared into her skin like a brand. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, looming just beyond the door.

Hatred radiated from them in waves. Or was it pity? Claire couldn’t tell which would be worse.

They thought they knew the truth. She could feel their judgment hanging in the air, thick and suffocating. They had already drawn their conclusions.

“I didn’t betray them, Ron,” she finally managed to choke out. The words tore at her raw throat, but she forced them out regardless, clinging to whatever shreds of dignity she had left. She still couldn’t bring herself to look up, couldn’t face him. “I didn’t double-cross your sister. I would never…”

Her voice wavered, cracking under the weight of her own disbelief. The silence that followed felt colder, sharper, like a blade hovering just above her skin.

“I would never hurt something you hold dear.”

The lie curdled on her tongue the moment it slipped out, bitter and vile. Or was it denial? She couldn’t tell anymore.

She had hurt him. Perhaps not through outright betrayal, but the omission of the truth had carved a canyon between honesty and deceit, a gap she could never hope to bridge.

“Ron,” Miss Granger’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight of familiarity that clawed at Claire, igniting jealousy in her chest. It roared like an ancient, untamable beast, rising and thrashing within her, and though she fought to suppress it, the bitterness lingered.

Miss Granger moved toward them, her steps unhurried, confident. Claire felt a pang of dread in her stomach as soft hands gently tilted her head upward, forcing her to meet the witch’s gaze.

She blinked up into the beautiful, compassionate features framed by soft curls. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, of their generation, the one who had stood beside Ron through every battle, every war. How had he ever chosen her—Claire—over the brilliance and grace of the woman before her?

Miss Granger’s brown eyes shone with unspoken concern, warm and perceptive as they swept over Claire’s bruised face and swollen throat. Her long lashes fluttered with each blink, her delicate fingers tracing the injuries with the precision of a healer assessing the damage.

In that moment, Claire felt impossibly small, fragile beneath Miss Granger’s gaze, as if every crack in her soul was laid bare for her to see, to judge. And Claire cried.

“Episkey,” Hermione murmured, her voice tender as her wand glided gracefully over Claire’s face and throat, healing the worst of the bruises, easing the soreness in her throat. The warmth of the spell soothed the sharpest edges of her pain, and for the first time in days, Claire felt as though she could breathe again, could swallow without agony.

Her shoulders sagged in relief, trembling from the release of tension that had wound so tightly around her. The ache that had lived behind her eyes eased, and the overwhelming pressure in her chest loosened, though not entirely.

“There you go,” Miss Granger whispered softly, her fingers brushing against Claire’s skin one last time before releasing her.

An apologetic smile tugged gently at the corners of her lips—lips that were full of empathy, of kindness. Claire felt her heart twist painfully in her chest. She could never compare to this. Never match the grace, the beauty, the sheer light that Miss Granger exuded.

Her insecurities pressed in, blinding her, reminding her of all the ways she fell short, all the ways she was less than this remarkable witch who could do no wrong. Claire couldn’t win against this. Against her.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Ron’s voice was quiet, and Claire’s chest constricted, her breath catching as if a fraction of him slipped further from her, pulling away, untethering.

A jagged pain flared in her heart, a hollow ache that no spell could heal. It was the deep sting of heartbreak, not of injury, but something more profound, more devastating.

The realization that no matter how much she wanted to she could never hold Ron’s heart the way Hermione Granger did. That space was sacred, filled with years of shared battles and history she could never touch.

Miss Granger gave Ron a small nod before standing and stepping away, her presence leaving a gaping void Claire didn’t know how to fill. Ron knelt in front of her now, his hands hovering as though unsure where to touch, unsure if he even wanted to. His gaze, once warm and familiar, now held shadows—doubt, confusion, hurt.

“Claire,” Ron said, his voice tight, controlled, but his eyes were filled with a storm of emotion. “Tell me the truth. What did you do?”

She wanted to tell him, wanted to spill every broken truth that clawed at her from the inside. But words failed her, leaving her trapped between the unbearable weight of her guilt and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, she could fix this.

But the lie… the lie still hovered on her lips, refusing to be swallowed.

“I didn’t betray you,” she whispered, the words shaky, unsure. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by Ron’s sharp inhale. His hand, trembling slightly, came to rest on her knee, grounding both of them, if only for a second.

But she knew it wasn’t enough.

Her mind was racing, desperate to find the right words, anything to explain the tangled web of truths and half-truths that had trapped her here.

“I…” Claire’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, trying again. “I need you to understand, Ron. Elizabeth—Dr. Curie—she’s my… she’s my little sister.”

Ron’s eyes widened, shock flickering through his expression for a brief moment before it hardened again. His jaw clenched. “Your sister?” he repeated, disbelief lacing his words. “You never told me you had a sister.”

Claire flinched at the clear accusation in his voice. It had been to protect him—she had convinced herself—shield him from the disaster her family held, the horrors Elizabeth had committed herself to.

And, perhaps selfishly, to shield herself from this very moment.

“I didn’t,” she whispered, “because I wanted to keep her separate from all of this. From you. She… she’s made some terrible choices, Ron, but I swear to you, I never—never—betrayed Harry Potter or Ginny. I didn’t help her do any of this.”

Ron’s hand twitched on her knee, as though he didn’t know whether to withdraw it or hold on tighter. His voice came out in a low growl. “Then why protect her? If you knew what she was doing—what she was capable of—why didn’t you stop her?”

Claire shook her head frantically, her heart pounding in her chest. “I tried. I tried, Ron! I did everything I could to get her out of it, but I couldn’t. She was so far in by the time I realized why she was involved.”

“What motivated Dr. Curie to involve herself with the Muggle operations if her sister is a witch?” Miss Granger questioned, her tone matter-of-factly, not accusatory or angry. Shame flooded through Claire, burning hot in her chest, her cheeks, her eyes.

"What motivates so many of us," Claire whispered, not daring to look up as she made her confession. "Jealousy, I presume."

"Did you act out of jealousy?" Ron's voice was softer now but edged with a sharpness that cut through her.

She couldn’t bring herself to speak, only nodded fractionally. His hand slipped away from her knee, the loss of contact more painful than any of the shackles or the damp chill of the dungeon walls.

"I didn’t help her escape," Claire said again, her voice hoarse with desperation. "You have to believe me, Ron. I didn’t protect her because I agreed with what she was doing. I—I was trying to stop her."

"I don’t believe you," he said flatly, the finality in his voice striking like a blow.

Claire's breath hitched, her world tilting dangerously. "Please, Ron, you have to—"

"No!" Ron snapped, standing abruptly. His eyes blazed with hurt and anger. "You lied to me. For years. How am I supposed to trust anything you say now?"

Claire attempted to reached, but her shackles rattled, reminding her of her captivity. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you."

"Well, congratulations," he said bitterly. "You've managed to do just that."

The words hung heavy in the air, each one a dagger piercing her heart. She felt the room closing in, the weight of his condemnation suffocating.

He stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a knife poised to cut. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes flicking away as if he couldn’t stand to look at her anymore.

“I protected her because she’s my sister,” Claire choked out, tears burning her eyes again. “But I didn’t protect her from the consequences of her actions. I didn’t get her out.”

He shook his head and turned, disappointment and disgust radiating off him in waves.

“I’ll tell you everything I know!” she cried, desperate to keep him here, to keep him listening. Because she knew, the moment he would walk out of her cell, he would not return.

Ron paused, though didn’t turn back, waiting for her to speak again. She searched for Harry Potter, who stood in the darkness of the hall, face warring between suspicion and sympathy.

“Veritaserum!” she managed to choke out. “Give me Veritaserum. The new sort, the one they are still testing. I haven’t managed to build up a resistance yet!”

Perhaps it wouldn’t stoke their confidence that she had admitted to such skill, but it wouldn’t help her later if she kept it a secret, she knew that much.

“That could work,” Miss Granger sounded encouraging, and it wounded Claire’s last shred of pride that it was her advocating for her side of all those that could have. “She deserves to plead her case, Ron, before you allow her to fall to her fate.”

Chapter Text

Harry was transfixed by the clear liquid in the small vial, not much bigger than a small child’s finger. The way it seemed to sparkle faintly, a pearlescent sheen whenever the light above their heads flickered, it seemed deceptively innocent.

Odorless and tasteless as Aqua Tofana—a Damocles sword over life and death, justice and exoneration.

“It punishes omissions and half-truths,” Ron was explaining to Hermione. He stood rigid, leaning against the far wall, creating as much distance from Claire as possible. “And it diminishes a person’s resistance to following commands.”

Hermione had insisted they move to one of the interrogation rooms in the MLE—a cleaner, warmer place than the damp, claustrophobic dungeons below.

The room had plain walls, a sturdy table, and chairs for each of them—solid, uncomfortable. The light overhead continued to sway gently as though a draft disturbed the space.

The air here didn’t cling with the same stench of desperation, and yet, there was still something unsettling in the atmosphere.

Perhaps it was the weight of countless confessions that lingered in the walls, or the haunting echo of Ron’s life splintering apart before their eyes.

Claire sat stiffly across from Harry and Hermione. She looked steadier than she had in the dungeons, her body no longer shaking uncontrollably, her breaths coming more evenly. There was an acceptance in her posture, a resignation in the way her shoulders slumped.

She reached for the uncorked vial in front of her, her fingers trembling just slightly as she brought it to her lips. When the drops of liquid hit her tongue, she winced as though she had bitten a nettle.

“It causes pain?” Hermione scrutinized the empty vial when Claire placed it back onto the table, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the idea.

“Suppose so,” Ron shrugged his shoulders, looking away from Claire as he did. It wasn’t hard to figure out that beneath the set jaw, the hard gaze, was a depth of love, despair, and the acidic acknowledgement of betrayal.

Harry couldn’t fault him for it.

He couldn’t help but imagine himself in Ron’s place, the raw hurt of betrayal fusing with the memories of love and trust that couldn’t simply be erased.

If he were sitting here, Ginny, alive and well, on the other side of the table, knowing she’d kept secrets that had destroyed lives…

Ginny’s face drifted to mind—the way her eyes would spark in challenge or soften with tenderness. She’d stood by him through so much, shared burdens that would’ve crushed others. If she’d turned her back, if she’d lied to him, especially in something so deeply personal and devastating...

He wasn’t sure he’d even recognize himself in the aftermath.

How would he keep going, the weight of betrayal tangling with every memory, every moment? The anger would claw its way up, he knew that. But would he ever be able to truly hate her? Or would the love that had once brought them together only make it more potent?

“It’s torture,” Hermione’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality. Her hands trembled lightly as she folded them on the table, righteous fury simmering in her warm brown eyes.

“It’s barbaric,” Ron agreed easily. His voice had lost its edge, but there was still a soft bitterness in his tone. “Though it’s still preferable to some of the other methods they authorize these days.”

Harry nodded, not particularly keen on asking what those methods entailed. Though he could tell Hermione was on the verge of asking.

“It’s still subjective though, isn’t it?” he asked instead, his voice deceptively level, masking the desperation, anger, and hope weaving their tendrils through Harry’s heart. “The truth is based on what the person believes.”

“Sadly, yes,” Ron said. “A person can only divulge information they are personally privy to.”

Hermione's brow furrowed in thought. “Which means... if Claire believes something to be true—even if it isn't—that's the truth we'll get.”

Ron scoffed in agreement. “Fat lot of good that does. It means nothing if she's been lied to or if she’s lied to herself.”

Harry watched as Claire sat silently, her hands folded in her lap. She had swallowed the Veritaserum willingly, but it hadn’t erased the dread in her eyes. That sorrow was still there, the one that spoke of defeat, of someone with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us what you know about Elizabeth Curie,” Hermione said softly, but her words were too vague, too broad.

The potion took hold instantly, and Claire inhaled sharply, as if the force of the command had punched the air from her lungs. Her eyes widened, and before she could stop herself, she was speaking.

“Elizabeth Curie is my little sister. She was born January 3rd, 1983, after midnight. She’s allergic to strawberries and seafood. She played netball in Year 11 but broke her wrist during practice—” Her words came faster and faster, her breath quickening with every syllable. “Lizzy had a retriever puppy named Max, but Father—Father kicked it—until it stopped barking—urgh—died! It died!”

Her voice screeched on that last word, her face paling as the truth burned its way out of her. She gasped, the pain from the potion clearly punishing her for the half-truth she'd attempted.

Her eyes shut tightly, and she sucked in a rattling breath as the potion tortured her into full compliance.

“Lizzy loved magic, loved to read, but hated the neighbor’s boy. In Year 9 they sneaked below the serviceberry tree and Mother caught them—”

“Stop!” Ron’s voice cut through the torrent of her words. His hands clenched into fists, his voice trembling with something between rage and pity. “Take a breath. Please.”

Claire let out a shuddering whimper, tears brimming in her eyes as she tried to control her rapid breathing.

“I’m so…so sorry, Claire,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with guilt as her eyes darted to the empty vial in front of her.

She looked horrified by the effects of the potion, her fingers clenched around her wand as she vanished the glass away. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as though she was fighting back tears of her own.

Harry felt his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat as he watched Claire, broken and breathless in front of them. He wanted to look away, and yet he couldn’t. His heart hammered painfully in his chest.

“Claire,” Ron’s voice was low, his words deliberate, as though each one would be a careful move in a chess match. His brow furrowed; eyes locked on hers with a calculating intensity. “Were you ever in possession of Harry’s home address, which was, and still is, protected by the Fidelius charm?”

Claire exhaled, almost relieved by the clarity of the question. “Yes,” she said, her voice steady but weary. “I became privy to the address of Harry Potter’s home on April 20th, 2010, two days after his abduction, during the investigation led by your department at the MLE.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “Did you ever disclose that location to anyone within the MLE?”

“Yes,” Claire nodded, her words coming quickly. “I disclosed it to Aurors Cadwallader, Chaffinch, Wintergale, and Dunnock. They were all ordered to inspect the scene of the crime.”

Ron's gaze didn’t waver. “Did you disclose the location to anyone else within the Ministry?”

“Yes,” Claire replied without hesitation. “To the Dark Lord Voldemort, his consort Draco Malfoy, and Eloise Ashford.”

Ron blinked; brows drawn in confusion. “Who?”

“Lord Voldemort’s receptionist,” Claire clarified, her voice unwavering.

Ron’s expression relaxed with recognition. “Right.” He shook his head, focusing on his next move. “Have you ever disclosed the location to anyone outside the Ministry, including anyone from the Muggle world?”

“No,” Claire’s response was firm, her breathing even, her voice without hesitation.

She wasn’t lying—Harry knew that much, and yet he had almost hoped it had been her to blame, wanted the simplicity of a clear answer, the knowledge that it soon would be over.

Ron hesitated for a moment before pressing on, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Do you know who may have disclosed Harry Potter’s home address to the Salem Project? The information that led to my sister’s death, and the capture of Harry, my niece, and nephews?”

“I don’t know who disclosed Harry Potter’s address,” Claire admitted, her voice tinged with a reluctant apology, as if her inability to provide an answer was a failure she had wrestled with deeply. “But I do have my suspicions.”

“Who do you suspect was involved in disclosing Harry Potter’s location last April?” Ron’s voice was low, controlled, but the tension in his jaw spoke of fraying patience.

Claire shook her head slightly, but her answer came immediately. “I don’t have a name yet,” she said, her voice softening. “But I know it must have been someone from the wizarding world. Someone Harry knew personally. Someone with a grudge—someone who was working with the Muggles a year ago and is still working with them now.”

“Why do you believe it is someone from the wizarding world?” Hermione asked, her voice careful as though she was afraid to ask Claire any questions at all.

“They possess magic and wield it with exceptional skill,” Claire said, thoughtful. “Whoever it is, she has extensive knowledge of the Unforgivable Curses—the Imperius, the Cruciatus, even the Killing Curse. She’s no novice. This is someone who understands the depth and precision required to use such magic effectively. Likely grew up around it.”

“She?” Harry’s question tumbled out before he could stop himself, his heart in his throat.

“Yes, I suspect it’s a woman,” Claire’s eyes locked with his and for the first time he could see the depth of her unspoken apology. He couldn’t look away. “I interrogated Auror Cadwallader. His memory of her voice serves to support my theory that whoever broke out Lizzy was woman disguised as Auror Wintergale.”

“And you believe they are connected? Whoever broke out Elizabeth and who gave away Harry’s home address?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Claire nodded simply. Harry wanted to ask why, but the potion beat him to the question. Claire offered details swiftly as the potion burned through her veins. “I believe they are the same person. She leaves a word behind, a—a signature. Not handwritten, not a huge neon sign, of course, not every time. More as though she is keeping record of what she’s worked on, what she altered.”

The spy’s gaze drifted into the distance, her brows furrowed as she laid out her theory, her reasoning. Almost as though the interrogation was forgotten, and they were simply collaborating.

“But someone’s been tampering with files. Corrupting them. I noticed things missing—employee records, entry and exit data, —and I couldn’t find out why. All I know is the signature within the code that’s left behind. It’s always the same when it’s there.”

“Verum,” Ron interrupted her, nodding as though he knew exactly what she was referring to. Unfortunately, he gave no indication to explain how he knew. “How long have you been tracking this?”

Claire’s lips parted, and she hesitated, clearly weighing the words that the potion was forcing her to divulge. “Six months. Maybe longer. It’s hard to say for certain. It’s sporadic, whoever is doing this is careful not to leave too much of a trail. But when I cross-referenced the times it did appear, they lined up with major disruptions within the Salem Project and within the wizarding world.”

“Disruptions?” Hermione asked, “What kind of disruptions?”

Claire’s eyes flicked toward Hermione, then away again. “Data leaks. Employee disappearances. Failed operations. And, most notably within the wizarding world, the breakout of Lizzy. Or more accurately, her current location.”

“Did you find the signature when Elizabeth was broken out of the dungeons here at the Ministry?” Ron asked, stepping closer, his hands pressing flat against the oak table as if anchoring himself to it, restraining the urge to reach for Claire.

“Not… directly,” Claire admitted, her voice faltering slightly as Ron’s proximity seemed to unnerve her. Her wide, almost hopeful eyes flickered to his face before dropping again. “But it lingered in Cadwallader’s mind. A faint echo—like a shadow of it had imprinted itself on the subconscious parts of his memory after encountering her and Lizzy during their escape.”

She hesitated, her brow knitting as if trying to piece together the fragments of thought. “It wasn’t overt, not something he was even aware of consciously. But when I used Legilimency on him, it was there—resonating in the back of his mind. A whisper of the word, as though he’d heard it spoken or seen it in passing, and it had clung to him.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, his expression a mix of frustration and intrigue. “And you’re certain it was the same signature? Verum?”

Claire nodded firmly, her gaze steady now. “Yes. It’s the same.”

“Did you notice the signature when you used Legilimency on Dr. Curie?” Ron turned to Harry, his tone sharper, ignoring how Claire visibly stiffened at the implication.

“No…” Harry shook his head carefully, sifting through his memory. It didn’t ring any bells of recognition. “I didn’t see anything like that.”

“Whoever it is must not have had a chance to get to Elizabeth until after Claire wiped her memory, after Harry interrogated her,” Hermione murmured, her finger tapping on her wand in rhythm with her thoughts.

Claire’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. “What?” she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief. “I... I didn’t wipe her memories. Not ever.”

An alarmed silence settled over the room. The only sound the voices from beyond the interrogation room, drifting through the walls. Harry could feel his own heartbeat in the hallow of his stomach.

His eyes narrowed on Claire. “What do you mean you didn’t wipe her memory?” His voice was steady, but there was a distinct edge to it, a warning wrapped in disbelief and shrill panic. “When I interrogated her, she couldn’t remember her own sister.”

Not that he had particularly searched for Dr. Curie’s family ties, but he had been certain something as prominent as a magical sister would have popped up somewhere in his sifting through her memories.

“I don’t know!” Claire’s voice cracked as she gripped the edges of the table before her, her knuckles white. “I swear to you, Ron—I never touched her memories. I knew she was in custody, but I—I never went near her.”

“Then who did?” Ron demanded, his voice loud and accusatory.

Claire’s breathing turned shallow, her face pale. “If her memories were tampered with... it wasn’t me,” she repeated, her words frantic. “It must have been her—Verum. I would never rob my sister of her memories. Not even to protect myself.”

“Why would she go through so much effort to erase her memories instead of killing her outright?” Hermione asked, her voice soft but urgent, her keen eyes locked on Claire.

“I don’t know!” Claire’s voice rose, edged with desperation. “But it has to mean Lizzy knows something. Something too valuable to destroy. They wanted her memory locked away, not her life lost.”

Harry leaned forward, his fingers digging into the table’s surface. “What could be worth that level of risk? What does she know that’s so important?”

“I—” Claire paused, trembling, as the Veritaserum flared again, compelling her to answer. “I don’t know. Maybe her research was successful? Maybe they care for her personally?”

She didn’t sound convinced.

“Or maybe,” Hermione considered carefully. “Maybe whoever wiped her memory was not capable of killing her. Which would mean that it wasn’t Verum.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron cursed, pushing himself off the table and pacing the room. “There is someone else working on the inside. How many fucking inside men…women are there?!”

“I don’t know,” Claire whispered, staring at her hands still clutching the table.

Chapter Text

“Pansy Parkinson,” Headauror Weasley said decisively, leaning back in his magenta armchair as though he had presented the answer to the riddle.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. The sharpie screeched across the whiteboard she had conjured into St. Mungo’s private sitting room. Its smudged surface was already half-filled with names.

Some had been ruled out, others marked as potential leads, though none yet convincing, Astoria thought.

“Hey!” Draco’s indignant protest came from the equally magenta sofa, his legs draped in a checkered blanket of green and blue fuzz. His hair was in disarray, the strands falling across his forehead as he lounged with his head resting—quite contentedly, Astoria noted—in the Dark Lord’s lap.

“Add my childhood friend to the hit list, why don’t you?” Draco snapped; his tone laced with a certain petulance.

“We’re not damning her to Azkaban, Malfoy,” Weasley shot back, the Headauror restlessly shifting in his seat. “For now, she’s just a name on the board.”

“A name on a board of people who may want to murder Potter and sell his kids,” Draco objected. “Which, fine, she might, but she’s been overseas for the last three years running a perfume potion empire. Maybe keep her off your list for now.”

“Her alibi doesn’t clear her entirely,” Hermione countered, crossing her arms over the blush pink blouse Astoria had lent her for the duration of her stay at Malfoy Manor.

When Hermione’s sharp gaze flicked to Harry, Astoria’s followed.

The man had been particularly quiet all morning, sitting by the window, glaring out at the garden. The late-blooming daffodils and forget-me-nots painted the flowerbeds in soft yellows and blues, though their cheer seemed utterly lost on him.

The dark circles under his eyes were stark, bruises against his pale skin. His restless fingers toyed with a loose thread on the cushion, pulling at it as though unravelling it would somehow untangle the storm in his head.

Astoria wondered whether he needed a calming draught—or perhaps something stronger.

“If you’re adding my friends, you must add yours as well,” Draco lamented dramatically, as though Hermione’s list was a deliberate slight against his social circle.

Harry turned from the window, his green eyes narrowing at Draco. “Which one of my friends would want to harm me?”

“Luna,” Draco said flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a suppressed smirk.

Astoria concealed her exasperation with a practiced sip of tea, though inwardly she groaned. She missed the subdued, almost manageable version of Draco from the hospital bed.

This version—sharp-tongued and nearly fully energized—was clearly baiting everyone in the room and as much as she adored him, his antics she did not.

“Luna?” Harry blinked, incredulous. His fingers stilled, and for a moment, he looked as if Draco had suggested Minnie’s cat itself was plotting his demise. “Lovegood? The same Luna who once wore a roaring lion hat to cheer for me at Quidditch?”

“Yes, that Luna,” Draco said airily, reaching for a lemon scone and wincing when the movement pulled at his injuries. When he abandoned the effort entirely, Tom handed him the scone without a word. “You don’t find her unwavering positivity even the least bit suspicious?”

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, her socked foot tapping against the newly added sunflower-yellow rug with impatience.

Astoria couldn’t help but wonder who had been tasked with decorating the Dark Lord’s private rooms at St. Mungo’s—and, more importantly, whether they’d survived the audacity of such a garish endeavor.

“She’s not suspicious. She’s kind,” Harry countered, though his voice lacked its usual vigor, the words heavy with exhaustion.

“Kindness is an excellent cover,” Draco countered smoothly, breaking off a piece of the scone as though he were delivering pearls of wisdom. “No one suspects the butterfly-collecting looney in the corner of plotting dark deeds. It’s brilliant, really.”

“Isn’t she your cousin?” Hermione asked, tone laden with incredulity as she deliberately left Miss Lovegood’s name off the board.

“See? Even more reason to suspect her!” Draco grinned, settling back against Voldemort’s lap with ease. Astoria couldn’t help but notice the way Harry’s gaze kept flicking between Draco and the Dark Lord, his expression both one of apprehension and morbid curiosity, as though he were bracing himself for Tom to finally lose patience and smite Draco on the spot. “Evil runs in her veins.”

“Focus,” the Dark Lord ordered. His voice calm, merely carrying the faintest edge of impatience. His fingers began combing through Draco’s hair, the motion gentle and familiar. “This exercise is for clarity, not childish antics.”

“I’d call it playful banter,” Draco muttered, adjusting his position as though Tom’s lap had suddenly become less comfortable. “But fine. Who’s next on the list of people irrationally devoted to Potter’s downfall?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Weasley muttered darkly, the bitterness in his voice harsh.

The name sent a shiver down Astoria’s spine, her gaze snapping back to Hermione, whose face had gone ashen, the usual blush of her golden skin drained.

Hermione’s hand faltered for the briefest moment before she composed herself, gripping the sharpie tightly.

“She’s dead,” Astoria said softly, her words cutting cleanly through the panic that radiated from the brightest witch in the room. Standing, she brushed a gentle hand against Hermione’s arm, a steadying gesture of reassurance. “You’d need the Resurrection Stone to make her relevant again.”

“Which I’ve tried,” Voldemort sighed, and Astoria barely restrained the urge to hurl her teacup at the lunatic when Hermione’s breath hitched in alarm.

“Resurrecting her, of course,” Voldemort clarified, as though any one of them were unaware of the man’s madness.

“Unsuccessfully, I hope,” Harry said coldly, his hand twitching ever so slightly toward his wand. In unconscious harmony, Headauror Weasley and Hermione shifted to reach for their own.

“Obviously,” Voldemort sighed, the irritation in his tone suggesting that the failure was somehow a personal insult.

“Though,” his face shifted to one of contemplation before he smiled. “Perhaps we should try again with that stone within your pocket, Harry.”

When Harry scowled and protectively pressed a hand over his pocket, as if shielding something infinitely precious, Tom’s smile stretched wider, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes.

Astoria took another deliberate sip of tea, her fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain handle as the silence thickened. "I think we’ve adequately established that Bellatrix isn’t our culprit. Perhaps we should focus on suspects who are... alive."

“Very well,” Hermione said briskly, her gaze lingering on Voldemort with thinly veiled disapproval. She tapped the sharpie against the whiteboard as if to punctuate her determination to move on. “Who’s next?”

Headauror Weasley gestured toward the board. “What about Selwyn? He disappeared after the war.”

Draco snorted. “Selwyn couldn’t organize his way out of a paper bag, much less orchestrate something like this. He was useless even when we were winning. Besides,” he waved a languid hand toward Weasley, “weren’t we certain the suspect is female?”

Weasley’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing on Draco, but after a moment, he exhaled sharply. “I suppose so,” he admitted begrudgingly. “Selwyn doesn’t fit.”

“Cressida Blakely,” Harry suggested at last. “Her brother died in the war. Friendly fire… she blamed me.”

Hermione hesitated, her sharpie hovering over the board. “Possible,” she murmured as she finally added it to the growing list.

Draco sighed. “Half of wizarding Britain has a grudge against Potter.”

“Not,” Astoria added carefully, her tone softening as her gaze met Harry’s, “that any of them are remotely justified.”

“We don’t need every name,” Harry resumed taking the cushion apart until wool quelled from an open seam. “Just the one who has reason enough to betray my family.”

“Molly Weasley,” Draco suggested and, as if to hide the growing grin, he took a bite of his scone.

Ah.

Draco was itching for a fight. Astoria could hear it in the deliberate sharpness of his words, see it in the way his eyes sparked with mischief whenever he looked Harry’s way.

Headauror Weasley froze, his jaw tightening as his gaze snapped to Draco. “Don’t even—”

Astoria wasn’t sure if Draco was just being plain stupid or if this was one of his convoluted attempts to drag Harry out of his slump. If Draco had a talent—and he certainly believed he had many—it was antagonizing people, especially when he thought it might help himself.

She sighed into her tea. Either way, this was bound to end poorly.

“Draco,” Hermione interrupted, her voice razor-sharp as she turned to face him. “We’re trying to be productive.”

“I am being productive,” Draco protested, arching a brow. “You’re the ones ignoring obvious possibilities.”

“Molly is not a possibility,” Harry said in warning, “focus on real leads, Malfoy.”

“Fine, fine,” Draco muttered, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “Keep your Gryffindor blinders on.”

Astoria sighed audibly. “We might consider narrowing this list down by motive. Pansy’s an opportunist, but she doesn’t harbor any deep-seated grudge against Harry, does she?”

“Well,” Draco admitted reluctantly. “At least, not unless Potter launches a rival fragrance line.” He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust as he sniffed the air.

“Excuse me?” Harry snapped.

“You are excused,” Draco said airily, waving a dismissive hand as he adjusted the blanket over his legs. “It would be atrocious anyhow.”

This time, the collective sigh was almost harmonious. Weasley still glowered in his chair.

“No—screw you, by the way,” Harry snapped, pointing at Draco with a scowl, a faint blush of anger finally coloring his cheeks. “I smell fantastic. And, for the record, Parkinson does have motive. She bloody well demanded I be handed over to this psychopath.” He gestured at Tom, his voice rising with indignation. “Full offense intended—”

“None taken, nevertheless,” Voldemort interjected smoothly.

Harry scowl deepened as he stood, hands balling into fists at his sides. “You should take offense,” he shot back, his tone sharp. “I wasn’t exactly complimenting your individuality.”

Voldemort tilted his head, his grin widening into something dangerously wicked. “Oh, I’m quite aware, Harry. But why take offense when you continuously choose to seek my presence regardless?”

“You do not get to call me Harry. I am not here for anything but my own benefit,” Harry hissed, his eyes flashing animatedly and Hermione shifted to stand closer beside him—to stop or protect him, Astoria wasn’t quite sure.

“Touchy, aren’t we, Potter?”

“Malfoy, I will punch your stupid ferret face if you don’t shut up.” Harry crossed his arms, and Astoria commended his resolve to remain restrained.

“What’s stopping you? At least then you’ll feel better.”

Astoria’s gaze flicked between Harry and Draco, her exasperation reaching a peak. She placed her teacup down on the delicate side table with far more force than she intended, the porcelain clinking sharply.

"Enough," she said sharply. "Draco, for Salazar’s sake, stop baiting him. Harry, do not engage or else he’ll start a full-blown sonnet about your cologne.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “A sonnet? Hardly. Potter’s cologne wouldn’t even inspire a limerick.”

Harry’s glare could have melted glass, but Astoria pressed on, determined to keep the fragile civility intact. "Focus, all of you. The longer we sit here trading insults, the less progress we make. Who else has the means, motive, and opportunity?"

Hermione shot Astoria a grateful glance before speaking up. "Perhaps, we are focusing on the wrong thing. What can we asses of a person based on the alias they are choosing to go by.”

"Thank you," Astoria muttered under her breath, relieved that Hermione, at least, had the sense to help her redirect the conversation.

“Verum,” Voldemort mused, his fingers idly stroking through Draco’s hair again. “A curious alias. Latin for truth. The irony would be delicious if this person weren’t such a thorn in my side.”

“Who do we know who’s pompous enough to use Latin as a calling card?” Weasley grumbled, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.

“That narrows it down to half the Ministry, I suppose,” Hermione said dryly, her sharpie poised over the board again.

Weasley rubbed at his temple, his shoulders tense as he considered. “Verum’s no ordinary saboteur. Whoever she is, she’s been ahead of us at every step. We’re not dealing with a casual grudge here. She is targeting us—and she’s damn good at it.”

“Well,” Draco drawled, breaking the tension with an exaggerated sigh, “if she is targeting Potter, she’s likely meticulous, strategic, and the owner of brass snitches for bollocks. No one half-arses their way into messing with the Chosen One.”

Astoria groaned softly into her hand, wishing she had brought a stronger drink. “Draco, you’re not helping.”

“No,” Hermione interjected, her tone sharp as her eyes darted to Draco, “he’s right about one thing. Not about the brass snitches, of course,” she added with a touch of exasperation, earning a smirk from Draco. “But Verum is meticulous and strategic. Whoever she is, she’s invisible, skilled—likely top of her class and highly resourceful.”

“Wonderful,” Weasley muttered, rubbing harder at his temple. “So, we’re looking for a ghost with a degree in sabotage and a personal vendetta.”

“Not a ghost,” Hermione corrected, pacing a small line near the board. “Someone with access. Someone who knows how we think. Someone close enough to predict our next move.”

Harry finally spoke, his voice low but steady, as though pulling himself out of his haze. “And we know it’s someone from the wizarding world. Verum didn’t just stumble into this—she understands our world, our laws, our vulnerabilities.”

“Which narrows it down,” Astoria added thoughtfully, sitting straighter. “Even if they’re working with Muggles, their magical knowledge sets them apart. This isn’t just a collaboration—it’s someone playing both sides.”

“Playing both sides,” Voldemort mused, his eyes flashing with interest. “How very Slytherin.”

Draco’s smirk widened. “Almost flattering, really.”

“Hardly,” Hermione snapped, the sharpie in her hand punctuating her irritation with a jab at the board. “We’re talking about someone who’s not just cunning—they’re dangerous. They’ve taken everything we thought we knew and turned it against us.”

“Typical,” Headauror Weasley muttered darkly. “Leave it to a Slytherin to make life miserable.”

Draco opened his mouth for what Astoria was sure would be a scathing retort, but she cut him off with a pointed look. “Not the time, Draco.”

Hermione tapped the sharpie against the board again, her brows furrowed in thought. “We need to focus on patterns. Where Verum’s been, what she’s done, who she’s targeted. If we can find the thread that ties it all together, we might have a chance at predicting her next move.”

“Let’s hope,” Astoria said lightly, “that when we find Verum, she’s not half as clever as we’re giving her credit for.”

“Perhaps, we won’t find her,” Voldemort said, his voice smooth as silk. “Instead, she’ll find us. And when she does… I imagine she’ll wish she hadn’t.”

“She will be begging for death instead,” Harry agreed darkly, and Astoria’s gaze softened as she watched him, a pang of worry settling in her chest.

He was worn thin, holding himself together with sheer willpower, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. And Astoria only hoped it wouldn’t fail to keep burning.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Why the Dark Lord had chosen to conduct his work in the kitchens, James truly couldn’t make sense of. The man was tense, his lips pressed into a firm line as his quill scratched against parchment with deliberate strokes.

It was painfully clear to James that Voldemort’s irritation was building, though whether it was due to the unending source of noise, Rosie’s latest attempt at cracking an egg—resulting in yet another splattered yolk on the tile—or the contents of his reading, James couldn’t say.

He lingered just outside the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the cool frame, watching the chaos within and feeling as though he didn’t belong.

Pippy darted back and forth, her ears bouncing with each sharp reprimand. “No, Miss Rosie! Not on the floor! In the bowl the egg must go!”

Rosie’s laughter rang out in defiance. “It is in the bowl, Pippy—mostly!”

James sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. He couldn’t tell what was more unsettling: the wild energy of the kitchen or the fact that Voldemort hadn’t yet snapped.

The man who was supposed to be a ruthless tyrant was just… sitting there, scowling faintly but otherwise tolerating the chaos. It didn’t make sense.

His gaze shifted to Minnie, who was sitting on her knees in one of the chairs at the table, her small hands carefully sorting berries into neat piles, organized by color and shape. Her face lit up as she looked at Voldemort, prattling on about syrup and how it would be better if it was purple.

James’s brow furrowed as Voldemort paused his writing, glanced down at Minnie, and offered a stiff nod of acknowledgment. The sight made James’s stomach twist.

It wasn’t normal.

“What are you doing, lurking there like a shadow?” Voldemort’s voice cut through the noise, cold and precise. He didn’t even look up from his paperwork, but James stiffened nonetheless, caught like a thief in the night. “Come in or leave. Indecision is unbecoming.”

James scowled, heat creeping up his neck. “I wasn’t lurking. I was thinking.”

“Fascinating,” Voldemort drawled, his quill scratching once more. “I suppose that shall be productive.”

“James!” Rosie called out, turning on her stool, her hands covered in flour. “Come help us! Pippy says we’re almost ready to bake!”

“I don’t want to,” James replied automatically, leaning further against the doorframe, his voice taking on a practiced indifference. But even as he said it, he couldn’t help glancing at the counter where Rosie and Albus were busy whisking what looked like pancake batter.

“You’re scared you’ll mess up!” Minnie teased, sticking her tongue out before turning back to her berries, popping one into her mouth.

“Am not,” James shot back instinctively, though he didn’t move. He crossed his arms, glaring at Minnie’s back.

“James.” Voldemort’s tone was sharper this time, carrying an authority that brooked no argument. He set his quill down with an audible click, finally turning to fix James with his cool, unblinking stare. “Either contribute or get out. This isn’t a gallery.”

For a moment, James thought about snapping back, about saying something to defy the monster. But then Rosie and Albus giggled, Minnie grinned, and Pippy huffed as she wiped up another mess.

And Voldemort, somehow, still hadn’t lost his patience.

Grumbling under his breath, James shoved off the doorframe and trudged into the kitchen. “Fine. But only because Albus can’t do anything right.”

“Oi!” Albus protested softly as he handed James a bowl of batter. “Fold it gently, or Pippy says it won’t puff up right.”

“Lightly,” Pippy added, her voice sharp. “Purposefully. Not too much, Master James!”

James took the bowl and spoon, muttering to himself as he started folding the batter. His motions were awkward at first, but he found a rhythm soon enough. Rosie watched him with a smug grin.

“Well, he’s doing it!” she declared. “See, James? It’s not so bad.”

“Whatever,” James mumbled, but his scowl had softened.

Papa appeared in the doorway then, his arms crossed as he surveyed the chaos. “I see we’re making progress,” he remarked, his tone dry, though James could almost hear the grin hiding in his voice.

Papa’s gaze lingered on Voldemort, who remained concentrated on his paperwork, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in the air, subtle but present, like the calm before a storm.

“Define progress,” Voldemort said without looking up. “If it includes haphazard batter-folding and spilled egg yolk, then yes, my Soul, progress abounds.”

Papa ignored the jab—and the weird name—stepping further into the kitchen and raising an eyebrow at the scene. “What exactly is going on in here?”

“Dutch-babies!” Rosie exclaimed, her hands flinging a puff of flour into the air as she waved them purposefully.

James glanced from Papa to Voldemort, then back to his bowl of batter. He still didn’t know what to make of any of this—the noise, the laughter, the strange semblance of normalcy. But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel entirely out of place.

“Are we eating here?” Papa asked, his expression softened slightly as Minnie tugged on his sleeve, grinning and pointing to her platter of carefully sorted berries.

“Dining room,” Voldemort said curtly, not looking up from his parchment. “This kitchen is no place for a meal.”

Rosie cheered at the prospect. “Pancakes in the dining room!” she exclaimed, spinning around and bumping into Pippy, who squeaked in indignation.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The pancakes had been plated with a sort of ceremonial flourish, thanks to Pippy’s dedication and the children’s overly enthusiastic involvement.

The table gleamed with cutlery, polished plates, and an overly ornate syrup jug that looked far too formal for Dutch babies.

Harry sank into the chair furthest from Voldemort.

It wasn’t a conscious choice—at least, that’s what he told himself—but the unspoken pull between them made proximity feel like stepping too close to a live wire.

The air wasn’t electric or oppressive; it was simply charged with something unbalanced, like a scale tipped too far to one side. He couldn’t fully unravel it, but it wasn’t the type of discomfort that allowed itself to be ignored.

While Pippy fussed over the children, and Rosie gleefully insisted she could manage her own plate (despite nearly toppling it), Harry caught a thread of something foreign creeping into his thoughts.

Satisfaction. No, more than that—something closer to contentment but with an edge to it, as though Voldemort was staking some quiet claim over the moment. It prickled at Harry’s mind, unwelcome and intrusive.

He glanced toward the head of the table where Voldemort sat, utterly at ease as though they weren’t living in a fractured reality where the Dark Lord occupied the same room as Harry’s children.

A stack of parchments rested in front of him, his quill scratching with practiced precision while the occasional flick of his hand turned a page.

The faint bleed of Voldemort’s emotions through their connection sent Harry’s thoughts spiraling, forcing him to confront what the man had done for him—the protection, the calculated mercy—and, more importantly, what he hadn’t done yet.

The unasked favor hung between them like a phantom, and Harry could feel its weight pressing steadily, insistently, against his chest.

“Are we just not going to address the elephant in the room?” The words left Harry’s mouth before he could stop them, his frustration bubbling over.

His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried the weariness of someone who had been waiting too long for the other shoe to drop. “When are you finally going to call in your favor?”

Hermione froze mid-sip of tea, her eyes darting toward him. “Harry,” she said carefully, the sort of warning usually reserved for volatile clients or her children on a bad day.

Voldemort didn’t look up. The quill in his hand continued its slow glide over parchment, his attention seemingly absorbed by the document before him. “Favor?” he echoed after a pause, his voice calm but with the faintest hint of enjoyment. “Harry, you’ve already begun repaying me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

At this, Voldemort finally set his quill aside and flicked his wand toward the folded morning paper sitting at the edge of the table.

It floated smoothly into the air before landing with a soft rustle in front of Harry. The headline blared in bold, unmissable font: The Chosen One’s New Alliance? Potter and Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic.

Below it was a moving photograph—Harry and Hermione walking alongside Voldemort, the three of them heading purposefully toward the Department of Dark Magics and Artefacts.

The article was as speculative as it was damning, spinning tales of political alliances and hinting that one of Voldemort’s controversial new legislations had gained unprecedented support thanks to Harry’s presence.

“What the hell is this?” Harry demanded, his voice low but edged with a bite sharp enough to cut through the air. His eyes scanned the article, the words almost blurring as his pulse pounded in his ears. “Legitimizing the use of the Dark Arts in the presence of Muggles? Are you out of your mind?”

“An excellent use of your influence,” Voldemort replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair with an ease that made Harry’s fury burn hotter. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as though Harry’s outrage was the very reaction he’d anticipated.

Harry’s grip on the newspaper tightened, the edges crumpling beneath his fingers.

The photograph of himself and Voldemort—walking side by side through the Ministry halls—seemed to mock him.

Fury churned alongside something dangerously close to betrayal. “You used me,” he accused, his voice rising. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the paper as if he could crush the reality it presented.

Voldemort tilted his head, his expression infuriatingly calm, entirely unapologetic. “I capitalized on your actions, Harry. There’s a difference.”

Hermione stirred beside him, her hand twitching toward the paper. It looked as though she might intervene, her mouth parting to speak, but Voldemort’s voice cut through the room with the deliberate precision of a blade. It was quieter this time, but no less commanding.

“You walk beside me,” Voldemort said, his crimson eyes narrowing with a gleam of satisfaction. “And the world sees progress. That is the favor.”

The weight of the words settled over the room like an oppressive fog. Harry’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he threw the paper down onto the table.

The imbalance of their arrangement felt glaringly obvious now—Voldemort had already taken what he wanted, and Harry hadn’t even realized it.

“You could have asked me,” Harry snapped, his voice raw with frustration. “You should have asked me.”

“And you would have refused,” Voldemort replied simply, as though the answer was self-evident. “Yet here we are.”

“I would never support the use of the Dark Arts against Muggles. That’s horrendous—”

“In the presence of, my dear Harry.” Voldemort’s smile was sharp, almost serpentine, and it sent an unwelcome chill up Harry’s spine. “The legislation does not condone their use on Muggles. Merely… alongside them. A subtle but important distinction.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “Oh, come off it. You think the intent isn’t obvious? It’s a slippery slope, Voldemort, and you know it.”

“And yet, it is a slope the Wizengamot is now inclined to explore,” Voldemort said, his tone so casual it bordered on flippant. He gestured to the newspaper. “And why? Because you walked beside me through those halls. Because you have told the world, intentionally or otherwise, that I am worth listening to.”

“I didn’t say that!” Harry slammed his fist onto the table, making the plates and utensils rattle. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

“Twist?” Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “I don’t need to twist anything, Harry. The world twists for me when it sees you by my side.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Harry’s breath came quickly, his chest heaving with the effort to keep himself from exploding entirely. Hermione glanced between the two of them, her expression tense, while Astoria sat frozen, her teacup hovering mid-air as though unsure whether to sip or flee.

And then Minnie squealed.

The piercing sound shattered the moment like glass, making nearly every adult in the room jump.

Wands twitched toward her instinctively, but the panic dissolved almost instantly when they realized the child wasn’t hurt.

“Syrup!” Minnie exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight as Pippy poured a thick stream of violet syrup over her pancake. “It’s purple!”

The sheer delight on her face was infectious, and the tension in the room broke like a dam. Harry blinked, lowering his wand, his anger momentarily forgotten as Minnie’s joy rippled through the space.

Astoria sighed, the sound deliberate and loud enough to break through the lingering tension.

She set her teacup down with an air of exaggerated care, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Pippy,” she said dryly, her eyes narrowing slightly at the diminutive house-elf hovering near the sideboard, “did you enchant the syrup?”

Pippy, large, bat-like ears twitching nervously, shook her head so vigorously it was a wonder she didn’t topple over. “No, Miss Astoria! Pippy did not enchant the syrup!” she squeaked, clutching the corner of her tea towel as though her very reputation hung in the balance.

“I did,” Voldemort interjected without looking up from the parchments he had returned his focus to.

His tone was so matter-of-fact it took a moment for the words to fully register. He flicked a stray inkblot from the corner of the page, entirely uninterested in the ripple of stunned silence that followed.

“You did?” Harry’s question came like a whip. “Why?”

“Because they desired it,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the absurdity of the response. “They… desired it? That’s your justification?”

Voldemort didn’t bother looking up. “Do you intend to interrogate me further over syrup preferences, Harry, or shall we move on to matters of actual importance? Such as pancakes, perhaps?”

Minnie beamed up at Voldemort, her small hands gripping the syrup bottle as she poured another generous helping onto her plate, one that Hermione was too slow to stop. “Thank you, Mr. Dark Tom!” she chirped, her delight as unrestrained as her sticky enthusiasm.

Harry opened his mouth, ready to continue his protest, but Hermione’s hand landed lightly on his arm, stopping him. “Let it go,” she murmured, her voice calm but firm. “It’s syrup, Harry.”

Astoria smirked, lifting her silver cutlery. “You have to admit,” she said, her tone deceptively mild, “purple syrup does pair nicely with handmade pancakes.”

Chapter Text

The chandeliers flickered on the moment they stepped through the front doors, the soft golden glow cascading across the marble foyer as though the Manor itself were celebrating Draco’s return home.

He knew the place sensed his entry, the wards shifting subtly to acknowledge its master. Normally, he would have smirked at the thought of it having missed him, but tonight, the weight of his exhaustion tugged too heavily on him.

His legs felt like jelly, every step slow and deliberate, yet he made no effort to hide the way he leaned into Tom’s arm. It wasn’t just practical—it was comforting. Tom didn’t seem to mind; if anything, the small smile playing on his lips hinted at a quiet satisfaction.

Perhaps Draco was exaggerating his unsteadiness just a little. But then again, who could fault him? The warmth of Tom’s arm around his waist, the gentleness in the way he guided Draco over the threshold, was soothing in a way Draco hadn’t realized he needed.

“Welcome home,” Tom murmured, his voice a low, velvet hum that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. “You truly lighten up the place.”

“Charming as ever,” Draco replied, though the dryness of his tone faltered under the rasp in his voice. He hadn’t quite recovered from the strain St. Mungo’s had taken on him, and his pride was still smarting from the idea that Potter of all people had seen him at his worst.

Potter.

The thought twisted Draco’s stomach, and he straightened slightly, attempting to regain some of his dignity.

If only Potter wasn’t part of this equation—hovering, brooding, and occasionally shooting him looks that made Draco wonder if he’d ever truly left the schoolyard.

Tom’s hand tightened ever so slightly on Draco’s waist, grounding him, and Draco let himself lean in again, just for a moment.

“I could carry you,” Tom offered, his voice laced with amusement, but there was a sincerity beneath it that made Draco’s cheeks flush.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco scoffed, though he didn’t move to pull away. “I’ve survived worse than a few bullets and a hospital bed.”

Tom arched an elegant brow, his lips quirking into something between a smirk and a smile. “Ah, but why survive when you could thrive, my dear?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him by twitching upward. It was infuriating, how easily Tom could unravel his frustrations, how effortlessly he could draw out even the smallest hint of amusement when Draco wanted nothing more than to stew in his indignation.

They reached the grand staircase, and Draco hesitated at the sight of the steep steps. His body protested the idea of climbing them, but he refused to show it.

Tom, however, seemed to read him with unnerving accuracy.

“Pippy,” Tom called softly, and the house-elf appeared instantly, wringing her hands with excitement at seeing Draco back.

“Master Draco, welcome home! Pippy has prepared your favorite tea and the lavender-scented linens in your quarters—”

“Tea sounds splendid,” Tom interrupted smoothly. “But Draco won’t be staying in our quarters tonight.”

Draco blinked, turning his head sharply toward Tom. “I won’t?”

“No,” Tom said simply, steering him toward a smaller hallway that led to Tom’s once private rooms. “We’ll pay my old quarters a visit tonight.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but the warmth in Tom’s touch, the subtle way his fingers pressed against the small of Draco’s back, silenced him.

“Fine,” Draco muttered, his tone laced with mock annoyance, though his steps quickened just enough to betray his anticipation.

These were the rooms where they had consummated their marriage, after all, beneath the weight of a union that had started as strategy and spiraled into something infinitely more complicated.

“Don’t you get any ideas, my Heart,” Tom murmured, his voice carrying that smooth blend of affection and delight that only he could manage.

Draco barely had time to grin before the warmth of Tom’s lips brushed against the side of his neck, the touch so light it sent an unexpected desire down his spine.

“You are in no shape for such fantasies,” Tom added, his laughter soft but rich, the words accompanied by the deliberate press of his hand at the small of Draco’s back, guiding him forward.

Draco rolled his eyes, though he didn’t pull away. “And here I thought you’d have more faith in my resilience.”

“Faith, yes. Foolishness, no,” Tom quipped, his grip steady, his tone dipping into something mocking. “Besides, I can’t imagine our esteemed healer at St. Mungo’s would approve of us testing the limits of your recovery.”

Draco clicked his tongue in mock irritation. “Astoria would probably readmit me herself if I so much as considered it.”

“And rightly so,” Tom replied, his amusement deepening, and yet his hand didn’t waver. “Though I dare say I’m far more convincing when it comes to keeping you in line.”

They reached the entrance to Tom’s private rooms, the dark wood doors swinging open with an ease that suggested the wards had missed their presence.

The air inside was warm, the faint scent of sandalwood and parchment lingering in the space like a well-worn cloak.

As they stepped inside, Draco’s gaze flicked over the familiar furnishings—the ornate fireplace, the deep emerald velvet chairs, the ever-present stack of tomes piled high on the polished desk.

The memories lingered here, woven into every detail of the room, though Draco wasn’t sure if that was comforting or disconcerting.

Tom flicked his hand to ignite the fire and called for blankets to wrap around Draco’s shoulders.

“Still playing the gentleman, I see,” Draco drawled. “Where was this charm when we first met, I wonder?”

Tom chuckled, the sound low and indulgent as he shrugged off his robes, draping them neatly over the back of a nearby chair. “Ah, but where would the fun have been in that? You’ve always responded better to a bit of… resistance.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Resistance, is it? I seem to recall being the one holding my own.”

“And yet,” Tom replied smoothly, leaning down to brush a tender finger along Draco’s jawline, “here we are.”

“Here we are,” Draco sighed, lifting his chin at the soft urging of Tom’s finger.

Tom’s lips quirked in response, the faintest ghost of a smile before he tilted his head and closed the remaining distance between them. The kiss was slow, almost savoring, as though they had all the time in the world.

Draco’s fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of Tom’s shirt, grounding himself against the faint dizziness that always seemed to accompany moments like this.

When they pulled apart, it was only enough to catch their breath, foreheads touching in an almost startling intimacy. Draco’s eyes fluttered open, his silver gaze locking onto Tom’s.

The crimson red of Tom’s irises, so often sharp and predatory, had softened into a deep, almost wistful shade of wine. For a moment, Draco forgot to breathe, the world narrowing to the faint warmth of Tom’s exhale against his skin.

Draco moved first.

The motion was subtle at first—a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight—but then he closed the space between them with deliberate intent, his lips brushing against Tom’s with a fervency that hadn’t been there before.

The kiss was deeper this time, unrestrained by pretense or caution. It wasn’t careful, but it wasn’t rushed either. It was yearning, a rawness to it that spoke of weeks spent longing, wanting but unable to have.

Tom responded in kind, his hands slipping to Draco’s waist, steadying him as he leaned into the kiss. Draco’s fingers twisted into the collar of Tom’s shirt, gripping the fabric tightly as though afraid he might disappear if he let go.

The air between them grew warmer, charged with something more potent than mere affection—an undercurrent of need that neither had dared to voice aloud.

But then, just as Draco’s hands began to wander—tracing the planes of Tom’s chest, skimming the sharp lines of his jaw—Tom pulled back. The movement was gentle, careful, as if disentangling a delicate thread. His hands stayed at Draco’s waist, firm enough to anchor but not to restrain.

“Draco,” Tom murmured, his voice low but steady, the faintest hint of warning strung through his tone.

Draco blinked, breathless, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. “What?” he asked, though the word came out weaker than intended, laced with the slightest tremor.

“You’ve spent the last month teetering between recovery and recklessness,” Tom said, his hands sliding up to Draco’s shoulders, his grip grounding but undeniably gentle. “I won’t have you overexerting yourself for the sake of proving something we both already know.”

Draco frowned, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m fine, Tom.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. “You’re trembling.”

Draco’s lips parted, ready with a retort, but he caught the truth of it in the faint quiver of his own hands. He sighed, frustrated, and let his forehead fall against Tom’s shoulder. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Tom chuckled, low and indulgent, the vibration of it rumbling through Draco’s chest. “And yet, here you are, insisting on being insufferable right alongside me.”

Draco huffed, but the warmth in Tom’s tone soothed the edge of his frustration. “You’re not going to let me win this argument, are you?”

“Never,” Tom replied smoothly, his fingers brushing over the nape of Draco’s neck, his touch light but reassuring. “But you’re welcome to try again once you’ve actually regained your strength.”

Draco couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, though he kept his face hidden against Tom’s shoulder, his eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Tom said kindly, his voice a murmur against Draco’s hair, “you keep indulging me.”

Draco didn’t reply, not with words, but his grip on Tom’s shirt tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in Tom’s words.

The exhaustion tugging at him was real, but so was the comfort of Tom’s presence.

“I don’t suppose you’ve brought any tea with you,” Draco said indolently, though there was a note of genuine hope in his voice.

“Tea?” Tom echoed, his tone faintly mischievous. “You’re recovering in my care, my Heart. I think you can do better than tea.”

Draco cracked one eye open. “If this is your way of suggesting a nutrient potion, I’m leaving.”

“Rest assured, my intentions are far more indulgent,” Tom said, urging Draco into the closest chair before moving to retrieve a decanter of something golden and richly amber from a nearby shelf. “But only if you behave.”

As Tom poured the liquid into two glasses, Draco allowed himself a small sigh of contentment. Whatever game they were playing—whatever this was—he could allow it for now.

And for tonight, at least, he could pretend the world outside these walls didn’t exist.

Unbidden, the thought of Potter crept back into Draco’s mind.

The man was a storm cloud of contradictions, his presence irritating yet magnetic. The memory of their last encounter, the sharpness of Potter’s voice, the tension in his green eyes, lingered far longer than Draco cared to admit.

Perhaps he should be grateful for Tom’s insistence on keeping him hidden here. After all, the idea of sharing breathing space with Potter again was enough to fray Draco’s already delicate nerves.

Then again, it was never just Potter who unnerved him. It was the way Tom seemed to revel in those encounters, as though he were orchestrating a game only he understood.

And Draco? He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was a player or a pawn.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“So…” Potter elongated the vowel, clearly stretching it as long as his breath would allow it. It served both to fill the uncomfortable silence and to postpone the inevitable question he seemingly was about to ask.

“What is it, Potter?” Draco inquired, keeping his face buried in his book, legs folded beneath him. “Spit it out, you're making me anxious.”

Potter huffed, suggesting that it was Draco who had intruded upon his enjoyment of the sunroom rather than the other way around.

“Were you sixteen when Voldemort…um, courted you?” Potter finally asked, his voice tinged with hesitation. “Because that, aside from all the other concerns about this whole situation, would be incredibly…questionable, if not downright illegal.”

Draco should have expected this conversation, and he had – just not now, on the first full day home. Draco lowered the book slightly, staring at Potter over the edge of the cover. "He didn't court me, Potter. I simply married him. And I was eighteen."

"That's only marginally better, and negligibly so," Potter retorted, whether indignant on Draco’s behalf or for morality’s sake wasn’t quite clear.

“Why are you so interested to know?” he asked, folding the book and laying it in his lap. “Can’t fathom the idea I insisted on marriage willingly and independently?”

“Well yes. I mean, no?” Potter tried but faltered when Draco tilted his head and stared at him, blinking slowly. “It’s just, it didn’t seem as though there was a lot of love lost between the two of you back then. Why marriage? Why still?”

“Marriage, conducted in the ancient pureblood manner, establishes a stronger bond and offers more protections to the spouses than contemporary forms of marriage.”

Draco shrugged and promptly regretted the movement. When a groan escaped him, Potter jumped up, hovering uselessly before Draco—blocking the lovely view of the gardens in the process.

“Oh, sit down,” Draco grumbled as he rubbed his chest and levitated a cup of fresh tea over. “Besides, the concept of divorce is entirely absent in this archaic practice.”

“In fact,” he continued, enjoying the citrusy scent of his brew, “and this is almost entirely forgotten knowledge, it creates a soul bond between partners, not unlike horcruxes. Technically—and please don’t hex me for this, I am just the messenger—” he raised a placating hand when Potter was about to interrupt him, “you carry a one-sided marriage bond. If you were to embed a piece of your soul into Tom’s, it would be complete.”

“Never. That’s bloody revolting,” Potter spat, and Draco said nothing. When the silence became too loud, Potter hid his blush behind a clumsy cough.

“But why a marriage bond? Why not have Voldemort swear an Unbreakable?”

Draco laughed, not a very happy sound, “Well, I couldn’t ask him to swear one, now could I? He raged when he was resurrected. I have seen that man angry throughout my youth, Potter, I have been on the receiving end of his ire. But he was livid, murderous even when he woke, and I knew he would be.”

To date, it had been the scariest and bravest thing Draco had done. There had been only a few heartbeats between Tom’s resurrection and for the bond to take hold.

They had known as much and had prepared.

“The bond protects the spouses’ lives from each other’s attempt at conjugal homicide. It rids the Avada Curse of its necessary intent so to speak.”

Yet, it didn’t go so far as to protect from domestic violence—a fact Tom had taken advantage of in the very beginning.

Draco shuddered at the memories, a phantom hand squeezing his throat. While Tom hadn’t been able to throw the killing blow, he had tried again and again and yet again.

“Does it keep Voldemort from killing anyone else?” Potter asked, hope shimmering in his eyes and Draco hated to destroy the tentative flicker.

“No, it does not,” he shook his head.

They had known, and Father had paid with his life for finally protecting Draco, drawing the Dark Lord’s attention away from him before the Dark Lord could figure out what Draco had crafted with those ancient ruins and potions.

“Oh,” Potter looked pitiful in his disappointment. “Does the ritual require a human sacrifice?”

Draco hesitated, contemplating lying but Potter had already seen through him, and Draco was grateful for it.

“Who did you sacrifice?”

“A Muggle,” Draco admitted, hating the disgust and anger on Potter’s face, the way the man’s fists wound themselves into the fabric of his trousers. “He had hurt my mother. Violated her in ways that destroyed her. He deserved death.”

Potter looked at him quietly, didn’t say anything to abate Draco’s guilt but eventually, he nodded his head ever so slightly.

Luckily so, because Draco was about to list the lives Potter carried on his own back – petty as that would have been.

“Traditionally, a human sacrifice is not required,” he finally admitted. “But it strengthens the bond immeasurably and it grants what Tom considers immortality. I couldn’t have him pursue his insanity again, so I made the sacrifice.”

Potter remained silent, clearly debating on whether to ask his next question, but failing to keep it to himself after all. “Why resurrect him at all, Malfoy?”

“Resurrecting Tom wasn't a decision I made lightly, and it certainly wasn't done out of some twisted loyalty to his old ideals."

Harry's expression hardened, skepticism and anger mingling in his green eyes. "Then why? Why bring back the one person who caused so much pain and destruction?"

Draco sipped his tea, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill that had settled in his chest. He set the cup down with a deliberate clink, giving himself time to gather his thoughts.

“Because the alternative was worse,” Draco said finally, his voice softer than Potter had likely ever heard it. “When the remnants of his followers scattered, they didn’t just vanish. They reassembled. Fragmented, chaotic, yes, but dangerous in ways that even we hadn’t imagined.”

Potter’s jaw clenched. “You’re saying you brought Voldemort back because you thought he’d be better than what came after him?”

Draco’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “I’m saying that without him, the remnants became desperate, wild. They started experimenting with magics even he wouldn’t have dared to touch. Rituals, sacrifices, curses… They were tearing holes in the fabric of our world, and no one—not you, not your Ministry, not the Order—was equipped to stop them expose us all.”

“You think he was the solution?” Potter’s voice rose, incredulous. And yet, he sat softly beside Draco as though willing to hear Draco’s reasoning instead of condemning him entirely.

Draco met his gaze. “I think he was the lesser of two evils. He is predictable, Potter. Manipulatable, to a degree. I knew how to tether him. Those… zealots who sprang up in his absence? They were unpredictable. And they were starting to gather momentum.”

Potter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression thunderous. “So, you sacrificed a life, tied your soul to a monster, and brought him back—because you thought you could control him?”

“Not control,” Draco corrected, his voice steady but tired. “Contain.”

Potter shook his head, his disbelief palpable. “And now what? You’re married to him. You share a soul bond with him. You’re sitting here, sipping tea in a sunroom while the rest of the Wizarding World suffers.”

Draco let out a hollow laugh. “How would you know if they suffer? You left. For a decade you left the Wizarding World behind.”

Potter opened his mouth to argue—rightfully so, Draco couldn’t really fault him for disappearing.

“You think I haven’t paid for every ounce of power I wield over him? Do you know how many nights I used to spend wondering if I’d wake up alive? Wondering if the bond was strong enough to hold his wrath at bay?”

Potter remained silent, the weight of Draco’s words sinking in.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Draco continued, his voice quieter now. “But I made a choice. A calculated risk. And if it meant sparing my mother from what those fanatics would have unleashed, I’d do it again.”

Potter’s gaze dropped to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “And now, this is the world we’re left with,” he muttered, almost to himself. “A world where Voldemort sits in dining rooms with my children and attends Wizengamot sessions, all because you thought he’d make the lesser mess.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, his composure returning with a faint smirk. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Potter looked up, the fire in his green eyes reigniting. “Don’t you dare.”

Draco shrugged, reaching for his tea again. “It’s not as though I expect gratitude, Potter. But if you want to keep blaming me, by all means. It’s easier than admitting your world of heroes and villains doesn’t exist anymore.”

Potter surged to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lash out, but instead, he turned on his heel and stalked to the wall of windows.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken accusations and truths. Draco let it settle, waiting for Potter to gather whatever retort he was brewing.

“Why didn’t you just let me handle it?” Potter asked finally, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Why didn’t you trust me to fix it?”

Draco sighed, his own frustration breaking through. “Because you’re not omnipotent, Potter. As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, you can’t save everyone by yourself. And this? The rise of the Erratic Dark, the crumbling of the Statute of Secrecy? This was beyond your virtuous heart.”

Potter didn’t respond, his shoulders tense as he stared out at the gardens.

Draco watched him for a moment before leaning back in his chair, the fatigue settling deeper into his bones. “You can hate me all you want,” he said, his voice softer now. “But don’t pretend you’d have done better if the roles were reversed.”

Potter turned slowly; his expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t have brought him back.”

“No,” Draco agreed, his smirk faint but bitter. “You’d have let the world fall to the Muggles first.”

Potter crossed his arms, his posture rigid. “You’re saying the Muggles were a threat?”

Draco’s laugh was humorless. “I’m saying they are a threat, Potter. You, of all people, know that. And when you mix desperation with ignorance and hand them tools like firearms and surveillance drones, it becomes a very, very real threat.”

Potter frowned, the crease between his brows deepening. “You were certain Voldemort would deal with the Muggles?”

“Deal with the mess his followers were creating,” Draco corrected, his tone sharp. “Do you think your Ministry could have handled it? That your precious Aurors, stretched thin as they are, could have covered up every incident, silenced every witness? The Muggles were starting to ask questions. Questions that don’t have bland, easy answers.”

Potter opened his mouth to argue but stopped short, his expression clouding.

“Tom was the only one who could stop them. The remnants listened to him, Potter. They wouldn’t listen to me, or to you, or to anyone else. And the Muggles—” Draco paused, his jaw tightening. “They were getting ready to retaliate. I saw it. Military movements, intelligence leaks… they were preparing for something. For us. Even when they weren’t yet sure what we were.”

Potter’s arms dropped to his sides; his expression stricken. “The Muggles were going to start a war?”

“I’m saying they were moving toward our annihilation,” Draco said bluntly. “And it would have been a bloodbath. For us.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Draco’s words hanging heavily in the air.

“And Voldemort?” Potter asked finally, his voice low. “He just… fixed everything?”

Draco’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Hardly. But he brought order. He reined in the remnants, stopped the rituals, the breaches. The Muggles saw the chaos subside, their questions turned to disregarded conspiracies, and their focus shifted. Mostly, of course.”

Potter stared at him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Damage control.”

Draco met his gaze, his expression unyielding. “Yes. And it worked. Until now.”

“Until now,” Potter echoed, his voice thick with disbelief.

Draco leaned forward carefully. “You can hate me for it, Potter. Blame me, if it helps you sleep at night. But I made a choice to protect our world. To protect my mother. And if it means I had to share my life with a monster to ensure their survival, then so be it.”

“And yet you say he is no longer a monster.” Potter said accusingly.

“Oh, he still very much is,” Draco laughed, fondly now. “A calculated one, at that. But one capable of good things, of kind acts, and mercy.”

“Of love?” Potter said and it struck Draco how it almost sounded…hopeful.

Draco tilted his head, studying Potter. The question lingered between them, not entirely rhetorical, but heavy with something unspoken. Was it doubt? Curiosity? Or something more painful, more vulnerable?

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, Potter. Of love. Twisted, conditional, and infuriatingly complex, but love nonetheless.”

Potter’s jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching as he mulled over Draco’s response. He didn’t look convinced. “You make him sound human.”

Draco’s smile faded, his expression sobering. “That’s because he is. And that, Potter, is what makes him infinitely more dangerous than he ever was before.”

The silence that followed was brittle, crackling with a strain that neither seemed willing to acknowledge. Draco shifted slightly, careful of his still-sore ribs, and allowed the weight of the moment to hang between them like a precariously balanced scale.

“And yet, you love him,” Potter said finally, the accusation quiet but pointed.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, wincing as the motion pulled at a tender muscle. “I do,” he admitted, his voice quiet but steady. “And it used to terrify me more than you’ll ever understand.”

Potter blinked, startled by the raw honesty of the admission. For a moment, he seemed unsure of what to say, his gaze flickering between Draco and the garden beyond the sunroom windows.

“He’s still Voldemort,” Potter said eventually, as though reminding Draco of a fact he might have somehow forgotten.

“Yes,” Draco agreed without hesitation. “But he’s also Tom, my husband, the man who painstakingly re-catalogued the entirety of the Malfoy library after I spilled ink on half the shelves. The man who ensures the house-elves get their full day of rest each week because he knows it matters to me. The man who—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see him that way.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Potter admitted, his voice tinged with unease. “But I can’t deny he’s…different now.”

“Different doesn’t absolve him of his sins,” Draco said quietly. “Nor should it. But it means he can still make choices that matter. Choices that might make the world a little less unbearable.”

Potter frowned, leaning back against the arm of his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And you trust him to make those choices?”

Draco hesitated. “I trust him enough to know what’s at stake. For now, that’s enough.”

Potter didn’t reply immediately, his gaze distant as though he were piecing together some puzzle only he could see. The sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the faint lines of exhaustion etched into both their faces.

Finally, Potter spoke, his voice quieter this time. “For what it’s worth, Malfoy, I think you may be right. About some of it.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

“Make them crash!” Albus asked James, watching with joy as his older brother levitated toys through the air, chasing each other in a blur of rainbow colors.

They had been sprawled on a plush rug by the window, building something intricate out of enchanted blocks, the occasional soft laugh breaking the silence.

Tomorrow would mark three weeks since Harry had torn his boys from the cold clutches of the Muggle facility.

Three weeks of healing bruises, soothing nightmares, and watching as Albus and James slowly rediscovered what it meant to feel safe, to laugh without fear lurking in the corners.

It was a fragile process, tentative at best, but progress nonetheless. And yet, no matter how much joy their small victories brought him, Lily’s absence overshadowed it all—a constant, gnawing ache that no distraction could dull.

She wasn’t there to join in James’s quiet smiles or Albus’s cautious jokes. Her laugh didn’t echo through the halls of Malfoy Manor, her favorite bedtime stories remained untouched on the shelves, and the absence of her small, determined voice was a wound in itself.

Every moment of their recovery was a reminder that Lily was still suffering, still enduring horrors he couldn’t yet reach.

That failure loomed over him, sharp and unforgiving, turning every triumph with his sons bittersweet.

It wasn’t just her absence that weighed on him—it was the image of what she might be enduring. The thought of her small frame trapped, frightened, and alone haunted him, kept him awake even when his body cried out for rest.

What had they done to her? How had they twisted her mind, her spirit? The questions were as relentless as the guilt that accompanied them.

He couldn’t shake the fear that every day she spent away from him chipped away at the vibrant little girl he knew, replacing her with someone broken and unfamiliar.

Malfoy’s words echoed in his mind, challenging and unyielding. “You’d have let the world fall to the Muggles first.”

And he would have. He had.

His world, the mother of his children, his children themselves had fallen to the Muggles. And here he sat, helpless and dependent, when he held the tools to change their fate in his hands.

Harry had bristled at the accusation at the time, but now, watching his sons—safe, here, in a way they hadn’t been for months, years—he wondered if there was truth to it.

He had always fought for survival, for what was right in the moment. But had he really fought for the future? For something that would endure?

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet. Unconsciously, he grabbed the small pouch he kept with him at all times now—the one containing the Hallows.

She’s still out there, he thought as he stepped out into the gardens, the warm May air doing nothing to melt the chill within him. Lily’s still out there, and I’m doing nothing.

The thought stung, biting deeper with each repetition. He had failed her, failed to protect her from a world that wanted to tear her apart for existing.

His mind conjured terrible images—Lily alone, frightened, enduring the worst of humanity’s cruelty. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as though the pressure could banish the visions, but they only sharpened, the imagined sound of her crying almost unbearable.

His pace quickened, the gravel crunching louder beneath his shoes as anger flared. His hesitation, his endless deliberations—they were costing Lily.

If Voldemort had her, would I have hesitated? The question startled him, a cold weight settling in his stomach as he considered it. No. I would’ve done whatever it took—fought, killed, sacrificed—without question. So why am I hesitating now? Because it’s Muggles?

Every moment she remained in their hands, her childhood was slipping further away. He had seen what trauma did to children—seen it in himself, in the mirror, every day of his life.

He turned down a narrow path lined with towering hedges, the manicured perfection of the garden giving way to wild grass and scattered flowers.

His feet carried him to the edge of the property, where the forest met an open meadow. Here, the chaos of the world felt just far enough away for him to breathe.

Malfoy was right. I don’t do what needs to be done. He had clung to his principles, to the idea of fighting the right way, but where had it gotten him? One child missing. Two children scarred. And him—Harry Potter, the so-called savior of the wizarding world—too paralyzed by indecision to act.

He drew the small pouch from his pocket. The weight of the Hallows a physical reminder of the power he had refused to wield.

The Invisibility Cloak unfurled like a whisper, soft and luminous against the grass. Harry spread it beneath him, sitting cross-legged as he carefully removed the broken Elder Wand pieces and the Resurrection Stone. He laid them out before him, the sight of the Hallows stirring an old unease in his chest.

For years, he had turned away from these relics, locking them away in hopes of forgetting their pull. But now, with Lily’s absence gnawing at him, he wasn’t so sure. What was the point of principle, of clinging to the idea of what was right, if it meant failing the people who depended on him most?

He picked up the Resurrection Stone, turning it over in his palm. The crack that ran through its surface seemed to mock him, a reminder of how easily things could break.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of her—the fiery red hair, the freckles that dusted her nose. “Ginny,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Can you hear me?”

The air remained still. No shimmer of light, no familiar presence. Harry pressed harder, willing the stone to work. “Please,” he said, his voice trembling. “I need you.”

The silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. The stone offered nothing, only its cold weight in his hand. Harry let out a shaky breath, placing it back on the cloak. Maybe it’s broken. Or maybe it’s me.

His gaze shifted to the Elder Wand, its pieces marred by faint fractures. He had destroyed it once, certain that the world was better off without it.

But the world had changed, and perhaps he needed to change with it. The question was whether he could trust himself with the power it offered—or whether it would corrupt him as it had so many others.

The grass rustled around him, the evening breeze carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine. Harry lay back on the cloak, staring up at the sky, the clouds moving idly past him.

Somewhere out there, Lily was waiting for him, and he was here—still deciding, still hesitating.

She deserves better, he thought, his chest tightening. They all do.

Chapter Text

“Shh, child,” she whispered, her voice raw from screaming. “Shh, my dear child.”

They sat at the eye of the storm as she gently stroked the flame-red hair, matted and cropped short as it was. Around them, the air crackled with fury, heavy with a power far too immense for such a small, fragile body.

The lights above flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows across the sterile walls of the cold room, and the floor beneath them vibrated faintly, as if the ground itself was holding its breath and dangerously running out of air.

The girl trembled in her arms, her small frame shuddering with sobs that came in pained gasps, each one pulling more of the unnatural chaos into the air around them.

The static hum of magic, raw and uncontrolled, burned against the edges of the room like a flame searching for oxygen.

She tightened her grip, her hands steady even as her own heart raced with fear.

“You mustn’t let it take you,” she murmured softly, her voice firm but soothing. “Do you hear me, little one? It is not you. It cannot have you.”

The child whimpered, curling further into herself, hands fisting the coarse fabric of her sleeve. The witch didn’t flinch as a shard of light burst from the air above them, shattering a monitor on the far wall. She only continued her gentle stroking, her fingers tracing soothing circles against the child’s scalp.

“You are not alone. You are not lost. I have you.”

The storm faltered, the hum of magic dimming, though the air still pulsed with raw, untamed energy. The old witch leaned down, pressing her forehead to the girl’s temple, and whispered the words older than memory—words of grounding, of anchoring, of belonging. They spilled from her lips like an incantation, not one of spells but of simple, steady truths.

“You are not alone. You are not lost. I have you,” she repeated like a mantra.

Slowly, impossibly, the energy in the room began to dissipate. The oppressive weight lifted, the flickering lights steadied, and the vibrations beneath them stilled. The old witch exhaled a trembling breath, her body sagging slightly with relief, though her hands never stopped their steady motion.

The child looked up at her then, wide, tear-filled eyes meeting her own. There was something unspoken in that gaze—a plea, a question, a desperate hope that she wouldn’t vanish like the others.

The old woman cupped the girl’s face with her gnarled hands, her expression soft but unyielding. “You are stronger than this,” she said, her voice brimming with quiet conviction. “And I will see you through it, child. I swear it.”

For the first time since the storm began, the girl’s breathing evened out, the tension in her small body easing just slightly. The old witch didn’t let go, not even as the harsh clatter of boots sounded outside the door, signaling the return of the facility’s guards. She simply tightened her hold and pressed a kiss to the girl’s temple.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant hum of alarms. “Just stay with me.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

The tears came slowly at first, hot streaks that burned as they traced his cheeks, carving fragile paths through the brittle mask of composure he had clung to for far too long.

They felt like tiny betrayals, undermining the fragile scaffolding of his restraint, yet Harry couldn’t bring himself to stop them.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a futile attempt to hold back the deluge, but it was as if the floodgates had finally shattered under the weight of everything he’d tried to bury. The grief came in waves—ravenous, relentless, each surge dragging him deeper into the wreckage of himself.

The structure of who he once was lay in shambles. Once proud and fortified, it now stood warped and hollow, the threads of courage and resolve that had defined him unraveling into brittle fragments.

He no longer recognized the man he had become. Where there had been purpose, there was now a gnawing void; where there had been conviction, there was now only exhaustion.

And yet, amid the wreckage, he clung to the Hallows. His fingers tightened around them instinctively, seeking their cold, unyielding solidity as if they could anchor him.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Soft and sorrowful, the voice carried the warmth of familiarity, a balm to the ache that burned through him.

“Ginny?” he rasped, his voice trembling with the effort to speak. He turned blindly, tears blurring his vision and his glasses forgotten somewhere on the grass. His heart stumbled as auburn hair caught the fading light of the horizon.

Emerald eyes, so achingly familiar and yet so impossibly far removed from the life he knew, met his. They were his eyes. Her eyes.

“Mum,” he whispered, the word trembling from his lips as though it might shatter if spoken too loudly. Relief and disbelief collided in his chest, leaving him trembling anew.

Lily stood before him, her gaze filled with infinite love. She hadn’t aged a day from the last time he’d seen her, and yet now, nearing thirty himself, Harry saw her youth for what it was—vibrant, beautiful, and heartbreakingly fleeting.

“I’ve missed you, my darling boy,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that wrapped around his fraying edges, holding him together even as he felt himself unravel.

Harry’s hands shook as he stared up at her, the Hallows clutched tightly in his grip. He blinked hard, unsure whether to trust his eyes or the sharp ache blooming in his chest. “How are you…here?” he asked.

“You called for me,” she replied gently, her gaze flicking to the Resurrection Stone nestled in his palm. “Even if you didn’t realize it.”

He looked down at the Stone, its faint pulse resonating with something deep within him, then back at her. “I didn’t mean to,” he admitted, his words trembling. “I didn’t know—”

“You needed me,” she interrupted softly, kneeling beside him. Her hand reached out to hover over his cheek and when he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost imagine the warmth of her touch. “And that’s enough.”

The tears came again, unbidden and unstoppable, as Harry fought to find words that wouldn’t come. “I’ve failed,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I’ve failed everyone. Lily—my daughter—she’s still out there, and I can’t—” His voice faltered, swallowed by a sob that tore from his chest.

“Oh, Harry,” Lily said, her voice full of sorrow and affection. “You haven’t failed. You’re fighting. You’ve always fought. It’s who you are. And you’ll bring her home. You will.”

He shook his head, the weight of his self-doubt pressing down on him. “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not the boy who survived. I’m not the man they think I am. I don’t know how to be what they need.”

Lily’s expression softened, her beautiful eyes glistening as she leaned closer. “You’re not meant to be that boy anymore, Harry,” she said. “You’ve grown. You’ve changed. That’s not a weakness—it’s your strength. Change isn’t something to fear. It’s something to embrace.”

Her words settled over him, quiet and firm, pulling him back from the edge of despair. He stared at her, his throat tight.

“You are meant for greatness, my love,” she continued, her voice steady with conviction. “Not because of some prophecy, not because the world demands it of you, but because of who you are. You’ve always had a light inside you—a light that shines even in the darkest moments. And now, you have the power to shape the world. Not just for yourself, but for those you love.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the Hallows within his hands.

“You’re meant to be the Master of Death, Harry,” Lily said, her tone neither commanding nor pleading, but filled with quiet certainty. “It’s not a curse. It’s a gift. Use it. Not out of fear, but out of love. For your sons. For your daughter. For yourself.”

“You’re not alone,” Lily continued when Harry remained silent. “You never have been. And you never will be.”

Harry closed his eyes, his heart aching with the weight of her words. When he opened them again, she was still there, her presence steady, her love infinite.

“I am betraying everything I ever stood for as Harry Potter,” he finally allowed himself to say. He sounded weak, even to himself, childlike, as though he had regressed to his early childhood.

“You’re not betraying who you were, my love,” Lily said, her voice softening but losing none of its conviction. “You’re honoring him. You’re building on what he stood for. The Harry Potter who stood in that forest, willing to die for love and hope, is still here. He’s just growing into something even greater.”

“I have never wanted to yield this kind of power,” Harry whispered.

“It’s not about power. Because, at its core,” she said, her smile gentle and knowing, “are you taking on this responsibility out of a thirst for control, or out of a desire to love and protect? That distinction matters—That is what defines who you are.”

“Harry?” The shout was distant, muted by the stillness of the meadow, yet it rang in Harry’s ears like an alarm. His heart clenched, a sudden urgency coursing through him as though his fragile moment with his mother was slipping through his fingers.

Time was running out.

“Mum, about Malfoy, about Voldemort—” he began, his voice tight, the words spilling from him in a rushed, desperate tangle. There was so much to ask, so much he needed her to tell him, to make sense of. But even as the questions formed on his tongue, the voice cut through the air again, closer this time.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice echoed across the meadow; her tone threaded with worry. It tugged at him, tethering him back to reality as her footsteps grew louder against the soft grass. “Are you out here?”

Harry’s breath hitched, his gaze snapping to Lily, his heart pounding. Her image wavered, the edges of her form flickering like a candle on the verge of snuffing out.

“No—wait,” he whispered, his grip tightening around the stone, as though clutching it harder could anchor her there, could keep her from vanishing again.

Lily’s expression softened. She leaned closer, her voice gentle but firm. “You already know the answers, Harry. Trust yourself.”

“But—” The protest caught in his throat as Hermione’s figure crested the hill, her presence unmistakable now. The moment felt like sand slipping through his fingers, and with a strangled breath, Harry’s hand spasmed. The stone tumbled from his grasp, landing with a muted thud in the grass.

When he looked up again, Lily was gone, her absence like a sudden chill in the air.

“Harry!” Hermione called again, relief mingling with her worry as she spotted him sitting in the meadow. She hurried toward him, her brows furrowing when she saw his tear-streaked face. “What are you doing out here? Are you all right?”

Harry’s hands shook as he quickly swept the stone and the wand pieces into his pocket, his throat tight as he forced himself to nod. “Yeah,” he croaked, his voice raw. “Just… needed some air.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced, her gaze darting from him to the cloak spread beneath him, the faint shimmer in the grass. But she didn’t press him, instead settling onto her knees beside him with a quiet sigh.

“You’ve been out here for hours,” she said gently. “I was worried.”

Harry exhaled, his chest still heavy, the echoes of his mother’s words reverberating within him. “I needed to think,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against the stone in his pocket. “There’s a lot to figure out.”

Hermione didn’t respond immediately. She simply placed an arm around his shoulders, a steadying presence, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Harry let himself lean into it.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Hermione stared at him; her lips pressed into a thin line as she absorbed his words. The firelight in her room flickered, casting shadows across her face, and Harry could see the wheels turning in her mind, a familiar pattern of doubt, worry, and reluctant consideration.

“So… she said that?” Hermione asked at last, her voice careful. Her fingers traced absent patterns along the seam of her jeans, a telltale sign she was trying to organize her thoughts. “She told you to trust Voldemort? To take on the role of Master of Death?”

Harry shook his head, his hand tightening around the stone in his pocket, as though its weight might tether him in the moment. “No, she didn’t say to trust Voldemort. She said it wasn’t about power. That it’s about love—about protecting the people I care about.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed deeply, and her gaze flicked briefly toward his pocket, where she knew the stone lay. Her expression softened, but the edge of caution didn’t leave her eyes. “Harry, you know I trust you. I do. But… the Resurrection Stone isn’t just an object. It’s tied to magic none of us truly understand. The Hallows are dangerous for a reason.”

“You think it’s corrupted,” Harry said flatly, not quite a question but close enough.

Hermione hesitated, her teeth catching her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “The Hallows have always had… a strange pull. You’ve seen it. The stories surrounding them aren’t exactly encouraging.”

“But I didn’t feel anything… wrong,” Harry insisted, his frustration creeping into his tone. “She felt real. Almost warm. She didn’t try to sway me toward anything dark or destructive. She just… she reminded me of who I used to be. Who I could be.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped slightly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction. “That sounds like her,” she said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “From everything I’ve read, Lily was… incredible. And if it was really her, I’m glad she could be there for you.”

“But?” Harry prompted, sensing the weight of an unspoken thought hanging between them.

“But,” Hermione said, meeting his gaze squarely, “I worry that the stone might not be as innocent as it seems. Even if it’s giving you truth, Harry, it’s still a Hallow—and we know what the Hallows can do to people. I don’t want it to twist you, to make you second-guess yourself or manipulate you into becoming someone you’re not.”

Harry swallowed hard, her words settling heavily in his chest. “She said I’m not the boy who survived anymore. That I don’t have to be.”

Hermione’s expression softened again, and she reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “She’s right about that,” she said gently. “You’re not that boy, Harry. You’ve grown, changed—and you’ll keep changing. That’s what life is about. But you don’t need to take on the world alone. You don’t have to let the Hallows define you. You’ve already proven time and again who you are without them.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said after a moment. “But maybe I am meant to be something more than I am now.”

Hermione paused, her hand lingering on Harry’s arm as her brow furrowed in thought. Her silence stretched between them, the flicker of the firelight reflecting the quiet intensity of her contemplation. Finally, she spoke, her tone slow and measured, as though she were piecing the words together as they came.

“Harry,” she began, her eyes searching his, “how does someone even accept the Hallows? How does one truly become the Master of Death? Is it… instinctive? Or is there something you’re meant to do? A ceremony, a ritual to conduct? Because…” she hesitated, her expression shifting to something softer, almost apologetic. “Because right now, I don’t think they’re working. Not the way they’re supposed to.”

Her words hit him like a sudden chill, and he found himself gripping the stone in his pocket again, the weight of it strangely cold now, as though it were responding to her doubts. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice tight.

“I mean,” she continued, her voice gentle but firm, “you’ve had the Hallows for years now, but… have they ever felt like they belonged to you? Like they were yours to command? The Stone, the Cloak, the Wand—they’re powerful, yes, but they’ve always seemed… detached. Separate.”

Harry frowned, her words stirring something uncomfortable within him. She wasn’t wrong. He had held each of the Hallows, used them even, but there had always been an odd distance, a sense that they weren’t entirely his. Not in the way legends spoke of.

“Maybe,” Hermione said carefully, “maybe the Hallows don’t just respond to ownership. Maybe they respond to intention. If you’re meant to be the Master of Death, maybe there’s something you need to do to claim that role. To show them—and yourself—that you’re ready for it.”

Harry stared at her, the possibilities swirling in his mind like a storm. A ritual. A ceremony. Could it be that simple? Or that impossibly complex?

“And what if I’m not ready?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione’s eyes softened, and she gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Then we figure it out,” she said simply. “Together. Because whatever this means—whatever you decide to do—you don’t have to do it alone.”

Her words settled something in him, not an answer, but a resolution to keep searching. To keep trying. He nodded slowly, the stone still heavy in his pocket, but the weight on his chest easing just slightly.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said quietly, and for the first time in what felt like days, the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile.

“Always,” she replied, her own smile tinged with both affection and determination. “Now let’s figure out what it really means to be the Master of Death.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

As much as Draco adored reminiscing about the early years, he was glad to be back in his own bed by then end of the second day.

The bedroom was quiet, a sanctuary of soft candlelight and the faint rustle of pages turning. Draco lay sprawled on the expansive bed, a book balanced against his thighs. The cover was faded, the binding soft from years of wear, and yet he found himself rereading the same line three times before giving up entirely.

His gaze flicked toward the window seat where Tom was perched, a book of his own in hand, the shadows of his lashes casting delicate shapes against his pale skin.

It was a maddening image—his husband, at ease and engrossed, every inch the Dark Lord in repose. And Draco, attempting to read while simultaneously keeping a tight grip on the tempest of emotions roiling within him.

He hadn’t meant to think about Potter. Not in any detailed way, at least. But the memory of his earlier musings—Potter, flustered and breathless, his Gryffindor fire stoked to full blaze—still lingered. It was a humiliating indulgence, really, imagining Potter barging into their rooms to demand attention. Yet now, against all reason, that exact image came to life.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the frames hanging there.

Potter, out of breath and wild-eyed, was a whirlwind of urgency. Behind him, Hermione followed, looking significantly less disheveled but no less determined.

“You,” Potter said, his voice sharp, cutting straight to the point as he strode to stand before Tom. “How does someone become the Master of Death?”

Draco felt the bond with his husband flare. Excitement surged across it, bright and electric, and Draco’s chest tightened.

Tom was pleased by Potter’s arrival, by his question—more than pleased—and the sensation stung in ways Draco didn’t care to name.

How dare Tom? How dare Potter?

Draco turned a page in his book without reading it, his fingers curling tightly against the edges. He didn’t have to look at Tom to know his husband was studying Potter with that infuriating blend of amusement and curiosity.

Of course he was. Tom always had a penchant for puzzles, for ambition wrapped in chaos. And Potter, standing there in his rumpled determination, was exactly that.

“I didn’t realize,” Tom began, his tone low and utterly indulgent, “that your late-night visit would include such compelling topics tonight. Do come in.”

Draco wanted to roll his eyes, to snap something cutting about Potter’s lack of decorum. But the words lodged in his throat when he caught the faintest trace of color blooming on Potter’s cheeks.

Was Potter blushing? Over Tom?

Draco’s grip on the book tightened further, and he wasn’t sure whether his frustration was aimed more at Tom for eliciting the reaction or at Potter for giving it so readily.

“What do you know about it?” Potter asked, ignoring the flirtation entirely—or perhaps oblivious to it, which was worse. “About accepting the Hallows?”

Tom closed his book with deliberate slowness, his crimson gaze fixed entirely on Potter. “Why, Harry, you sound almost desperate.”

“I am,” Potter admitted without hesitation, and Draco felt the air shift in the room. The raw honesty in Potter’s voice cut through all the games Tom was playing, leaving nothing but stark, naked need.

Tom stood, his movements fluid, and Draco couldn’t stop his gaze from following. Couldn’t stop himself from hating how effortlessly his husband commanded the space between them.

“And here you are,” Tom said, his voice silken, “coming to me for answers. How terribly delightful.”

Draco forced himself to look back at his book, pretending he wasn’t boiling with jealousy and something more. He wasn’t sure who he envied more—Potter, for the attention he drew so easily, or Tom, for the fact that Potter sought him out at all.

“You haven’t answered the question,” Hermione interjected, her sharp voice breaking the charged silence.

Draco shot her a grateful glance, though he doubted she noticed. At least someone in this room had the presence of mind to keep things moving.

Tom’s smile widened, wicked and knowing, and Draco could feel the warmth of it even without looking. “The Hallows,” he said smoothly, “require more than possession. They demand surrender.”

Potter’s brows furrowed. “Surrender?”

“A willingness to embrace what they represent. Death, life, power—they are not tools to be wielded without consequence.”

“And how do I do that?” Potter pressed; his voice taut with frustration. “How do I surrender?”

“That,” Tom replied, stepping closer to him, and Draco’s heart lurched, “is the question, isn’t it?”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, barely able to contain the surge of possessiveness as he watched the way Potter’s breath hitched, just slightly, under Tom’s gaze. It was infuriating. All of it. And yet, beneath the sharp edges of his resentment, something else twisted—something he didn’t dare name.

“Perhaps,” Tom said, his voice softening in a way that made Draco’s stomach churn, “you could state it. Plainly and clearly.” Potter bit his lip in thought, contemplating the suggestion without seeing the way Tom hungered for just that.

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that set Draco’s teeth on edge. “Plainly and clearly, Harry,” he repeated, the words almost a purr. “Say it aloud. State what you want, what you seek. The Hallows will not bend to indecision.”

For a fleeting moment, Draco entertained the fantasy that Potter would drop to his knees, address a different sort of want, and promptly, Draco chagrined himself for such thoughts.

Instead, he snapped his book shut, the sound louder than necessary, drawing everyone’s attention.

“If you two are finished,” he drawled, his voice dripping with false boredom, “some of us would like to get back to reading.”

Tom turned to him, amusement dancing in his eyes, and Draco hated how easily it disarmed him. “Of course, my Heart. We wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

But Potter didn’t look at him at all, his focus still entirely on Tom. And that, more than anything else, made Draco’s chest ache with a bitterness he couldn’t ignore.

Chapter Text

“Perhaps you could state it. Plainly and clearly.”

Voldemort’s words lingered in his mind, circling like a nagging whisper.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, his elbows resting on his knees. Before him, the Hallows lay in quiet defiance: the broken Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak folded neatly, and the Resurrection Stone, dark and unassuming.

They seemed almost mundane in the dim light of his room, their legendary weight dimmed by the ordinariness of the scene.

He cleared his throat, his voice breaking the silence. “I…” He hesitated, feeling the absurdity of speaking to objects. “I would like to accept the Hallows.”

To his utter lack of surprise, nothing happened.

He exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and frustration filling the empty space where some reaction might have been expected.

Shifting slightly, he repeated the words, louder this time, the uncertainty fading into determination. “I would like to accept the Hallows.”

Still, nothing.

Harry clenched his fists, his brow furrowing. What was he doing wrong? Wasn’t this what they wanted—what he wanted? Was it about power? Or something else entirely?

A soft knock on the door startled him. He turned sharply as the door creaked open, revealing James, his son’s cautious face peeking in.

“Dad?” James asked, stepping halfway into the room. “What… what are you doing?”

Harry scrambled to his feet, hurriedly sweeping the Hallows together as though caught in something deeply private.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, his voice betraying his discomfort. “Just… thinking.”

James lingered near the doorway, his gaze darting between Harry and the bundle of Hallows now hidden beneath the cloak.

“Right,” he said slowly, clearly unconvinced. “Well… um, me and Al asked Draco if we could have our own room. You know, together. So I’m just here to grab my and his stuff.”

Harry blinked, taken aback. “You… wait. You asked Dra—Malfoy?”

James nodded, his expression tentative. “He said it was fine, but I figured… you know… I should check with you.”

Harry’s chest tightened, not from anger or disappointment, but from the sheer disorientation of his son’s sudden autonomy.

They’d been through so much—dragged from one nightmare to the next—and yet here James was, calmly carving out a slice of normalcy for himself and his brother.

“I…” Harry started, his words fumbling. “Yeah, of course. If that’s what you want.”

“You sure? Do you need us here?” James studied him carefully, his hands clinging to the edge of the doorframe. “Because we can stay! You know, if you need us.”

Harry nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m sure, James. If it helps you and Albus feel better, then it’s a good idea.”

James hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

With quick, eager hands, James began gathering his and Albus’s meager collection of clothes, his movements carrying the unmistakable energy of a pre-teen on the cusp of newfound freedom.

Shirts were scooped off the back of chairs, socks fished out from under the bed, and a well-worn sweater that once belonged to Malfoy was stuffed unceremoniously into a small bag.

Harry leaned against the bedframe, arms crossed, watching the flurry of activity. James moved with a sense of purpose that tugged at Harry’s heart—a blend of pride and melancholy. This was a step forward for James, a moment of agency in a life that had been anything but stable.

“Don’t forget Al’s book,” Harry murmured, nodding toward the small paperback left on the nightstand. James paused, glancing at it before tossing it into the bag with a casual shrug.

“Right. Thanks,” James muttered, distracted but not unkind. His focus was entirely on the task at hand, his youthful enthusiasm untempered by the weight Harry so often carried.

“You seem… excited,” Harry ventured, his tone light but edged with curiosity.

James paused briefly, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess. Feels good, you know? Having our own space. Like we’re not just… tagging along all the time.”

The words struck Harry deeper than he expected. Tagging along. Was that how James had felt? A passenger in a journey he had no say in?

His second thought was immediate and painfully self-critical: Of course, why wouldn’t he?

How much of James’s young life had been dictated by Harry’s choices? By his need to flee, to fight, to survive? The weight of it settled heavily in his chest, an uncomfortable truth he could neither deny nor fully bear to confront.

His children had been caught in the currents of his life, dragged along with little say in the matter.

Of course, James would crave a sense of control, of independence—something normal amidst the chaos that had become their existence.

“I’m glad,” Harry said quietly, though his throat felt tight. “It’s good that you and Albus have each other.”

James glanced up, catching the note of sadness in his father’s voice. “You okay, Dad?”

Harry nodded quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… proud of you, that’s all.”

James gave him a look, one that was both skeptical and affectionate in the way only an almost-teenager could manage. “You sure you’re not gonna cry or something?” he teased, his grin widening.

“Not a chance,” Harry shot back, his smile softening.

James zipped up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder with an air of satisfaction. “Okay. I think that’s everything. Al’s probably waiting.”

Harry pushed off the frame, ruffling James’s hair as the boy passed. “Don’t stay up too late,” he called after him, even after James disappeared down the hall.

As the sound of James’s footsteps faded, Harry stood alone in the room, the quiet settling in once more. His gaze fell to the bed where his sons had slept, the faint imprint of their presence still visible in the rumpled blankets.

Maybe—just maybe—they were starting to heal.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“My Lord.”

Voldemort’s gaze flickered up from the dense tome in his lap, his focus splintered by the formal address. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air of the study.

Draco’s use of his title in their private chambers was a rarity, reserved only for moments of utmost seriousness—or moments where Draco intended to unsettle him.

He closed the book with deliberate precision, marking his place with a finger. “Yes, my Heart?” His tone was measured, a soft murmur to mask the apprehension pooling low in his chest. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

Draco lingered in the doorway, pale fingers clutching the doorframe as though to steady himself. Despite his polished exterior—the immaculate tailoring of his dress shirt, the faint scent of bergamot that clung to his skin—there was something fractured in his posture. His hesitation was foreign, unsettling.

Voldemort set the book aside entirely, leaning back in his seat as he studied his husband. “Come,” he coaxed, his voice dipping low, velvet and commanding. “Sit with me.”

Draco approached slowly, each step deliberate, but instead of sitting in the chair opposite Voldemort, he perched on the edge of the sofa. The space between them felt palpable, a chasm of unspoken emotions threatening to spill forth.

“Speak what’s on your mind, Draco.” Voldemort urged him again, careful to hide the hint of agitation that ringed through him. It only increased as he noted that Draco was avoiding his eyes, carefully studying anything but Voldemort himself.

“I’ve been wondering,” Draco began, his voice calm but tinged with an edge that belied his usual poise. “Harry Potter—will he be the end of us? Of our marriage?”

“Pardon me?” Voldemort asked, the question having caught him entirely and resolutely off guard.

“Harry Potter,” Draco started again, finally looking up as though he was steeling himself for an inevitable demise. “Do you covet him more than you do me?”

The question struck like a lightning bolt. Voldemort froze, his mind racing to piece together the path that could have led Draco to such a conclusion. Of all the accusations, fears, and reproaches he had prepared himself to endure, this was not among them.

“Draco,” he began carefully, unfolding himself from the chair and moving toward the sofa, “whatever has given you this notion?”

Draco’s gaze dropped, his fingers toying with the embroidery of the cushion beneath him. “You desire him,” he said, and there was no accusation in his voice—only a raw vulnerability that Voldemort found deeply troubling. “I’ve seen it, felt it. It’s not just admiration. You covet him.”

“And you believe this lessens my affection for you?” Voldemort asked, his voice soft, almost reverent, as he knelt before his husband.

Draco stiffened under the weight of his gaze, but Voldemort reached for him, tilting Draco’s chin upward with the faintest pressure of his fingertips. “Do you truly think my heart, as blackened as it may be, is so finite?”

Draco’s silver eyes, stormy and uncharacteristically uncertain, met his. “You’ve shared something with him I never could,” he whispered. “Your mind, your soul, your past—literal fragments of yourself. How could I not feel… displaced?”

“Displaced?” Voldemort echoed, his thumb brushing against Draco’s cheek. “My love, you are my center. My foundation. Harry Potter may stir… interest, but you are my home.”

The words did little to assuage Draco’s fears; Voldemort could see it in the way his hands trembled as they rested in his lap. “He isn’t just ‘interest',” Draco pressed, his voice sharpening. “You light up when he challenges you, when he defies you. And I—” He faltered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I hate how much I envy that.”

It was a rare admission, one that cut deeper than Voldemort expected. Draco, his proud, unyielding consort, laying bare his insecurities. Voldemort shifted, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, his hands slipping to cradle the back of his neck.

“You envy the game,” Voldemort murmured against his skin, his lips grazing the shell of Draco’s ear. “Not the players.”

Draco laughed again, this time softer, his body relaxing into Voldemort’s touch. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“It is what I know,” Voldemort replied, his tone firm. “What of you, my Heart? Shall we speak of your feelings for him?”

Draco stiffened once more, the heat rising to his cheeks betraying the flush of guilt and want Voldemort had long suspected.

Pushing Voldemort back, Draco stood quickly, swaying when he did and for a moment Voldemort worried his husband would collapse under his lingering injuries.

He stood himself, drawing Draco against his chest, securing him.

“You know I will not force the answer from your mind, Draco, but you have to communicate with me if you wish for me to understand.” Voldemort urged him softly, his tone low and soothing as he leaned closer. “Whatever it is you fear, whatever it is you feel, I will not harm you for—.”

“I am in love with him,” Draco interrupted breathlessly, the confession spilling forth so quickly that Voldemort needed a moment to process what had been said.

“I love him, I always have. I loved him in school, I was obsessed with him. I thought myself over what I named a silly infatuation, but I cannot deny that I desire him and have done so since I have been old enough to realize what desire is.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, Draco’s voice breaking toward the end. He buried his face in Voldemort’s chest, the weight of his confession folding him into himself.

His body trembled against Voldemort’s, taut as a drawn bowstring, his shoulders hinging to his ears as though bracing for an inevitable blow.

When Draco’s hand twitched toward his sleeve, likely seeking the comfort of his wand, Voldemort felt the unspoken fear radiating through their bond.

That Draco, proud and unyielding, would think he needed to protect himself from Voldemort in this moment…

“Draco,” Voldemort murmured, slipping a hand to Draco’s wrist and guiding the other’s hand to his chest. Gently, he pressed a kiss to Draco’s tensed knuckles, lingering there before dipping his head lower to meet his husband’s gaze.

“Oh, my Heart.” His voice was a whisper, reverent and aching. He wiped away a tear from the corner of Draco’s eye with the pad of his thumb. “Are you afraid that I would leave you because I desire Harry Potter, or because you do?”

Draco’s lips trembled, his reply soft and broken. “Either. Both?”

“Neither,” Voldemort assured, his tone unwavering. His hand shifted to cradle Draco’s jaw, tilting his face upward until their eyes met. “You and I, we are bound by more than mere circumstance. You are mine, and I, yours.”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Draco’s lips, feeling the subtle invitation as they parted beneath his own. With great restraint, he pulled away, his hands steadying Draco as the young man instinctively leaned forward, as though unwilling to let the moment slip away.

“Yes, there is something undeniable about Harry,” Voldemort continued, his voice soft yet weighted, as though he were admitting a truth he had long kept hidden. “From the moment I realized he still carried a piece of my soul, I knew. He belongs to me. He always has—he always will.”

Draco stiffened, his gaze sharpening, but Voldemort continued before he could interject. “Not merely in the way a master claims a servant, nor a general his soldier. It is deeper than that. He is part of me, a reflection of my power, my existence. The connection we share is not one I sought, yet it is one I cannot ignore. To deny it would be to deny the essence of what makes us… whole. And yet, this does not diminish what you and I share.”

Silver eyes met his, the faint blush of embarrassment coloring Draco’s high cheekbones. He was exquisite, breathtakingly delicate in a way that seemed almost otherworldly—like faefolk spun from moonlight, or a veela caught mid-dance.

Voldemort found himself marveling, not for the first time, at how someone so ethereal could feel so grounding. A fleeting thought resurfaced, one he had entertained many times: perhaps there was some distant ancestry in Draco’s bloodline, an inherited allure that made him so utterly captivating.

But Voldemort had long dismissed the notion as irrelevant. What bound him to Draco was not some magical charm but something far more profound—a connection that coursed through his soul, filling spaces he hadn’t known were hollow.

He had spent decades mocking those who succumbed to the desires of the heart, scorning what he’d perceived as weakness. Only now did he recognize those sentiments for what they truly were: jealousy.

He had disparaged love because it was something he had never allowed himself to possess. Instead, he had destroyed his soul in pursuit of immortality, blind to the truth that love might have been its own kind of eternity.

He had been loved before, of course. Bellatrix’s devotion had bordered on worship, a fevered loyalty that had elicited offers he had never cared to accept. Her ardor had been a tool, something to manipulate in his favor, nothing more. What had she seen in him? He had never asked, never cared.

It had been a cruel shock to return from the veil and find himself capable of love—only to realize he had already fallen. For Draco. For the sharp-tongued, fiercely proud young man who had, against all odds, chosen to resurrect him.

Draco, who liked to joke that Voldemort’s affections were nothing more than a particularly elaborate case of Stockholm syndrome. Draco, who didn’t realize that his every breath, every wry smile, and every soft glance had tied Voldemort’s once-shattered soul together in ways that no magic ever could.

Had he met Draco during his time at Hogwarts, Voldemort mused, he likely would have fallen for him then, too.

And likely killed him for it.

“I desire you,” Voldemort began, his voice quiet but resolute. “You are my eternity.”

The words were imperfect, insufficient to encapsulate the depth of his feelings, but they were all he had. He wished, fleetingly, that Draco would use Legilimency, dive into his mind and feel the truths he couldn’t articulate.

But they had agreed, long ago, to avoid that path after nearly tearing each other apart in their earliest, most volatile days.

“My concerns,” Voldemort continued, his gaze steady on Draco’s, “are not the foundations of our marriage. They lie in how you will fare, harboring a love that remains unrequited should you choose to keep your desire hidden.”

“You wish to pursue him, then?” Draco’s voice was tight, the frown tugging at his lips etched deep enough to reveal the turmoil beneath.

“Not,” Voldemort replied solemnly, “if you do not wish to pursue him for yourself as well.”

Draco’s eyes widened, the words hanging heavy in the space between them. Voldemort waited, his gaze unwavering, as though daring Draco to deny what they both knew was true.

“No, Tom,” Draco began, and Voldemort couldn’t help but feel a flicker of relief at the return to his given name. “This is—it’s madness. How can you even suggest what I think you’re suggesting? The purebloods barely tolerated you choosing a male consort.” He shook his head vehemently, his hair an artful disarray. Voldemort lifted a hand to gently sweep it from his pale lashes.

“Imagine what my father’s legacy would say—what my mother would think.” Draco’s voice rose with each word, a mix of incredulity and exasperation, though Voldemort noticed the faint undercurrent of hope beneath it.

“Draco,” Voldemort interjected gently, but the younger man was already spiraling.

“Potter would never entertain such ideas,” Draco continued, waving a hand as though to dismiss the entire notion. “He’d either vomit at the thought or, or worse, double over laughing. I will not make myself a fool or jeopardize your standing as the Dark Lord for some—some impossible fantasy.”

“You are letting the opinions of others dictate your determination of happiness,” Voldemort said softly, his tone measured but firm. “Draco, I believe you have endured enough of their judgment to know it holds no power over you.”

“No, Tom. I’m not—I won’t… It’s impossible,” Draco faltered, his words catching in his throat as if trying to untangle the knot of his own thoughts.

His eyes flickered with something akin to panic, but Voldemort merely watched him, indulgence blending with patience, knowing his husband well enough to recognize when the impossible was slowly becoming the inevitable.

“Merlin,” Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “can you imagine? Potter’s only just begun to trust us. If we so much as hinted at this—at my—at our desires, he’d bolt. He wouldn’t just laugh; he’d flee. And rightly so.”

“Harry Potter desires you just as much as you desire him,” Voldemort said with certainty.

Draco stiffened, but he said nothing. “He wrestles with it daily—have you not felt it? The way his pulse quickens when your hand brushes his? Or the way his breath catches when my voice dips?”

Draco’s eyes widened, the flush on his face deepening until it spread to his neck, faintly visible through the undone top button of his white shirt. A beautiful contradiction of pride and vulnerability.

Voldemort leaned in closer, his gaze steady and piercing, each word measured and deliberate. “He battles the same conflict within himself as you do. But unlike you, he has yet to name his desire, let alone accept it.”

The room stilled, silence broken only by the soft, uneven cadence of Draco’s breath. Voldemort watched him, noting the way his lips parted slightly as though to speak, but no words came.

“You’ve done it on purpose, then?” Draco finally managed; his voice low but accusatory. The blush spread further, painting his collarbones faintly pink, and Voldemort, ever reverent, dipped his head to press his lips to the heated skin of Draco’s throat, just above the fluttering pulse point.

The scent of him was intoxicating, familiar in its allure, yet endlessly compelling. Voldemort allowed himself a moment to revel in it, the soft catch of Draco’s breath beneath his ministrations stirring something deep and possessive in him.

“I tested a hypothesis,” he murmured against the warm skin, his tone smooth and unapologetic as he traced slow, deliberate kisses along the curve of Draco’s neck.

His efforts were rewarded with the faintest hitch in the younger man’s pulse, a sign that his resolve was fraying, even as his mind struggled to keep control.

“And your hypothesis led you to believe,” Draco began, his voice taut with incredulity but trembling faintly at the edges, “that Harry Potter—the darling of the Wizarding World—would welcome the advances of his adversaries?” He surely attempted to sound biting, but the quaver in his tone betrayed him.

Voldemort chuckled softly. “It led me to suspect,” he corrected, his words languid as his hand slid over his husband’s chest, fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt before tugging lightly at the hem, searching for the skin beneath, “that Harry Potter’s desires are far more complex than he would care to admit. To himself or to anyone else.”

Draco shivered beneath his touch. “You’re insufferable,” he sighed, though his voice lacked the conviction to make it sting.

“And yet,” Voldemort replied, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips, “you find me irresistible.”

Draco exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between exasperation and surrender. “You’re impossible.”

“Perhaps,” Voldemort conceded, his gaze dipping to meet Draco’s silver eyes, alight with both frustration and anticipation. Voldemort tugged lightly, his hands splayed on Draco’s lower back. “But I am rarely wrong.”

For all Draco’s defiance, his body betrayed him. He leaned ever so slightly into Voldemort’s touch, the words of protest lodged somewhere behind the rapid beat of the man’s pulse.

Draco’s head tilted to one side to allow Voldemort’s lips to travel down to the vulnerable junction of neck to shoulder. He gently bit down, preventing his sharp teeth from damaging skin.

A soft moan escaped his lover’s throat, the sound vibrating beneath his lips and Voldemort abandoned his resolve to wait until Draco had fully healed.

Without waiting for permission, Voldemort ran his hands over the back of Draco’s thighs, lifting him easily to wrap them around his hips.

With the newfound proximity, another moan echoed through the room as the length of his own erection pressed against Draco’s responding one, unmistakably tenting the expensive fabric of his trousers. He crossed the space of the study, stopping right before his bureau.

“May I take you over this desk?” Voldemort’s voice was rough, and he reveled in the effect it had on Draco.

Storm gray eyes shot black, pupils dilating with lust, his chest was rising and falling rapidly against Voldemort’s own.

When there was no response, Voldemort gently lowered Draco onto the desk. Searching hands encircled Voldemort’s neck and he was pulled down roughly, though he braced himself and refused Draco the kiss he was seeking.

“I need to hear your acquiescence, my Heart.”

“Yes.” Came the hissed response, and Voldemort accepted the desperate kiss. With a wave of his hand, Draco’s clothing unbuttoned, his shirt falling from his shoulders. His delicate body shivered as cold air touched the skin of his chest, the planes of his stomach. Voldemort traced the rush of goosebumps marking the man’s arms and abdomen.

As an afterthought, Voldemort raised the temperature of the room to a more comfortable level, a silent Incendio flared the flames in the fireplace to life.

Simultaneously, books, rolls of parchment, and ink bottles danced off the desk into their respective drawers, leaving the surface clean and clutter free.

With one hand he urged Draco to turn around, with the other he undid the buttons of his own trousers.

He didn’t move to banish his own clothing, Draco appeared to prefer the disparity whenever the opportunity arose.

Voldemort gently pressed a hand flat in between Draco’s shoulder blades and guided him to lay flush on the warmed surface.

He made a beautiful sight and Voldemort sighed. Draco was lean and fair, muscles tensed under his wandering hands. His skin was soft, and his pale skin nearly reflecting the flames of the fire.

Avoiding the jagged, angry scar itself, his fingers ghosted along its edges—a stark testament to Draco’s reckless courage, his unwavering protectiveness, and the fierce devotion he bore for those he loved.

There was a rose blush over his shoulders. Voldemort threaded his fingers through the blond hair, and more gently than he usually would have, pulled back Draco’s head, his neck arching unnaturally.

The man whined in response, this time for lust, unashamed of the precarious position he was placing himself in.

“You are so beautiful like this,” Voldemort spoke as he bent over Draco’s half-naked body to bite the delicate skin in his nape. “Imagine if Harry were to see you now, so good, bending over for me.”

A surprised moan escaped Draco’s lips and Voldemort smiled against his skin.

“You relish in this, do you?” He asked, continued to leave marks down Draco’s spine, avoiding the left shoulder. “Do you take pleasure in the thought of the Chosen One watching me fuck you over this desk? Remember, he is only a few walls away. Be good and let him hear you, will you?”

Another moan, this time louder, echoed through the study and Voldemort’s cock twitched at his Heart’s easy response to the teasing. He had not known of Draco’s exhibitionist streak but was pleased to know of it now.

His lips pressed a kiss to Draco’s tailbone as he tugged on the trousers and let his fingers trail lower, featherlight touches circling the skin of Draco’s hole.

Draco twitched and pressed back, seeking a rougher touch that Voldemort was only too pleased to grant.

Wandlessly, he summoned a hidden jar of oil and spread the warmed liquid thoroughly over two fingers. Without a warning, he pushed in both to the knuckle, not hesitating at the resistance or Draco’s startled moans.

“Look at you, whimpering already,” He whispered sweetly into Draco’s ear, fingers crooking lightly in a deliberate search.

He didn’t have to look long. Draco’s forehead pressed onto the wooden surface, mouth open in a silent gasp, as the pads of his fingers grazed the delicate nerves.

He relished in the forced, rapid rushes of breaths hitching in the other’s chest. “Come on, my Heart, let us hear you.” He twisted his hand and moved in and out of Draco harder, the ring of muscles loosening at every thrust.

He was rewarded with Draco’s beautiful voice as he started scissoring his fingers, preparing him for another finger. As he pushed all three in, Draco desperately grasped for the edge of the desk with one hand in a futile attempt to steady himself.

Voldemort chuckled lightly and continued his administrations, until Draco’s other hand reached back and twisted into the fabric of Voldemort’s trousers, urging him with whimpers to move on.

“Please, please.” He begged loudly, unashamed now of the possibility of having an audience. “I need you, stop teasing and please fuck me.”

Desperation was sweet on Draco’s face, sweat glistened on his forehead and his darkening curls stuck to his skin. His eyes blinked hazily at Voldemort over his shoulder, clouded with lust.

“Whatever you desire, my Heart,” he promised abandonly, his own desire left his cock straining against his pants, painfully throbbing in its confines.

He pulled himself free and slid his fingers out of Draco, the muscle fluttering and clenching at his exit. He used the leftover lube to slick himself up and without warning pushed himself into Draco until he was seated entirely to the hilt. Draco’s gasps were loud and wet, tears streaming down his cheek onto the desk.

“Is this alright?” Voldemort awaited a shaky nod before he nearly pulled out and crudely fucked back in, the muscles squeezing him tightly as Draco’s innards rebelled against the intrusion.

He made no pretext of starting gently, he took Draco as he wanted him: Folded over his desk begging for Voldemort to dare not stop. His sweet voice and broken cries echoing through their rooms.

Voldemort placed one hand onto the small of Draco’s back, holding him securely in place, the other gripped tightly the young man’s right hip. He would be leaving bruises on Draco’s skin and the greediness of that thought drove him deeper.

Draco was no longer stringing together coherent words, gasped curses and whines coming from his red lips, his hand anchored tightly in Voldemort’s pantleg and urging him faster, harder.

“Oh gods,” Draco’s exclamation was unrestrained when Voldemort adjusted the angle slightly, pushing the tip of his cock into Draco’s prostrate.

“Good boy,” Voldemort praised, nearing his own climax, desperate for it as he was after months of waiting. “Come for me, will you? Come for us, for Harry and I.”

He reached around Draco’s front, wrapping his fist around the swollen cock, feeling the hot, silky skin glide as he twisted once, twice before Draco released himself with a desperate cry. White, sticky spend hit the dark wood of the desk.

The body before him sagged in relief and Voldemort chased his own release, gripping both hips tightly and driving himself into Draco with a punishing rhythm. He groaned as his climax shot through him; a profound relief that bordered on exhilaration.

With one last thrust he pulled out, pressing a kiss to Draco’s lower back. He moved back to admire his work, spreading Draco to watch the spend drip out of the fluttering entrance, left gaping from sudden emptiness.

“Magnificent.” Voldemort praised Draco, rubbing soothing circles over the man’s lower back, tracing nonsensical symbols, placing mollifying kisses along his spine as he waited for Draco’s breathing to slow.

“Tired,” Draco mumbled eventually and twisting slightly, growing uncomfortable in his position.

As he tucked himself in and did up his trousers, Voldemort conjured a warmed, wet towel to carefully wipe away the cum left running down blushed thighs.

He could send a cleaning charm over his lover’s limb body and walk away, though the intimacy of the physical act had always seemed to bring Draco back to him and he delighted in the simple act of care.

He turned Draco around as the other’s hazy eyes blinked slowly and cleaned his now softening body.

“Let’s get you to bed.” He mused and Voldemort carefully gathered his drowsy husband into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that felt almost incongruous against his magnificence.

As he stood, a blanket floated gently through the air, a silent manifestation of Draco’s instinctive magic—a small, wordless act that Voldemort found endlessly endearing.

He stepped out of the study, fresh air sweeping away the scent of sex and sweat and carried Draco through the sitting room.

The faintly ajar door to the green room didn’t go unnoticed, its fractionally opened state betraying a secret that Voldemort had suspected.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face as confirmation settled over him—Harry Potter had lingered, had listened to every moment of him claiming Draco against the desk.

The thought sparked an almost mischievous delight. Tomorrow, he would invite Harry into his study, observe the telltale signs of embarrassment—the stiff posture, the averted gaze, the barely contained tension at the thought of what had transpired there.

Later, he would share the memory with Draco through the Pensieve.

He carried Draco to their bed, settling him gently onto the soft sheets before drawing the covers snugly over him. Draco barely stirred, his breathing already deep and even, the quiet rhythms of sleep claiming him.

Voldemort paused, stepping into the adjoining bathroom to shed his clothes, the echo of their earlier intimacy lingering in his thoughts. When he returned, Draco was curled on his side, his form serene, the golden halo of his hair fanned out across the pillow.

Slipping into the bed behind him, Voldemort molded himself to Draco’s back, their bodies fitting with the ease of long familiarity. He pressed a final kiss to the exposed curve of Draco’s shoulder, the warmth of his husband’s skin grounding him as sleep gently overtook him.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

Harry’s breath hitched, coming in quick, uneven bursts as he struggled to quiet it, his chest rising and falling with a frantic rhythm.

Each shallow inhale felt sharp, desperate, as though he were fighting to suppress any sound that might betray his presence, exposing the fact that he was standing there—listening.

He hadn’t meant to linger—hadn’t intended to stand, rooted and unable to leave. But now, the heat in his face burned deeper, crawling down his neck, his hands trembling where they pressed against the frame of the door that stood closed.

There was a pull, magnetic and unbearable, to listen, to piece together the fragmented murmurs and half-stifled sounds. His pulse hammered in his ears, a heavy thrum that drowned out any rational thought. He shouldn’t be here. And yet, he couldn’t make himself leave.

Every breath felt too loud, too sharp, as though it might give him away. A pang of something unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach—a strange cocktail of longing, curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite name but burned all the same.

The vivid intimacy behind that door wasn’t meant for him, and yet it wrapped around him, refusing to let go. He pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe, trying desperately to ease the strained ache within his pants.

At first, he had misjudged. The muffled sounds had stirred him from the lonely bed, pulling him into the shadowed sitting room in search of their source.

Cries echoed faintly from the study, slipping through the cracks and pooling in the quiet of the night. They ricocheted off the walls, filtering through his door, and had him moving before he could think better of it.

His mind raced with grim possibilities; his steps purposeful as he approached the study. He was ready to barge in, ready to confront whatever horror awaited on the other side, his heart hammering with righteous fury.

If Voldemort dared—if he even thought for a moment that he could subject Malfoy to violence under the pretense of marital power—Harry would stop him.

Dark Lord or not, no one would Crucio their spouse in Harry’s presence. Not while he was here. Not ever.

He gripped his wand tightly, his breath shallow as he readied himself to intervene, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The desperation in Malfoy’s pleading voice spurred him forward, his hand hovering over the door’s edge, prepared to shove it open.

But then—

Oh. Fuck.

The words weren’t filled with pain but something else entirely—raw, breathless, and unmistakably laced with desire.

Harry froze, the shock of it rooting him in place. His mind scrambled to make sense of the sudden shift, his grip on his wand faltering as a voice—low and resonant—broke the charged silence.

“You are so beautiful like this.”

The baritone, unmistakably Voldemort’s, rumbled through the heavy door. The dark wood seemed to hum with the weight of his words, separating Harry from the scene within but not shielding him from the imagery, the mirage that sprang to life unbidden.

Malfoy, flushed and disheveled, kneeling over the Dark Lord’s lap. His head thrown back with abandon as he seated himself, shaking and gasping over the intimate intrusion…

“Imagine if Harry were to see you now, so good, bending over for me.”

First ice-cold, then searing hot, shock coursed through him, winding its way through his body like fiery venom, leaving destruction in its wake. The initial chill numbed him, his breath caught and shallow, as his senses recoiled in stunned paralysis.

But then the heat followed—a sharp, consuming blaze—igniting something deep within him that he could neither name nor control.

Shame clawed at his chest, wrapping around him like a vice, only to be joined by a darker undercurrent of hunger and, to his horror, a flash of indisputable desire.

Get out of here. His inner voice screamed at him, but his feet refused to move.

At first, he thought he had been discovered—his heart jolting in his chest as if anticipating the door to swing open and expose him in his humiliation.

But no such moment came. Instead, the mounting sounds from beyond the door continued, unbroken, unperturbed by his presence.

He exhaled shakily, only to find himself grappling with something even more alarming than fear: hunger.

Not for food, but for the forbidden tableau playing out just beyond his reach. He felt it deep in his chest, a gnawing ache that refused to be silenced. His ears strained against his will, drawn inexorably to the quiet whimpers and low groans that spilled into the sitting room.

He told himself it was curiosity, that it was the sheer wrongness of it that kept him rooted there. But the truth was undeniable, burning in the back of his mind like a confession he dared not speak aloud: he was captivated, held fast by the magnetic pull of intimacy unfolding just beyond the door.

Unbidden, his hand had found himself, slipping past the waistband of his pants, tightening over the hot skin beneath.

“Do you take pleasure in the thought of the Chosen One watching me fuck you over this desk? Remember, he is only a few walls away. Be good and let him hear you, will you?”

Harry swallowed his own moan, his fist spasming as Malfoy’s sounds grew louder, guttural, more desperate in response. The image his mind conjured unbiddenly shifted.

Malfoy now stood half dressed, leaning over the desk, his trousers pooled unreservedly around his ankles. With one of Voldemort’s hands tightened around his wrists, his arms were twisted to his back—helpless, restrained.

His own hand grew slick, wet from pre-cum and spiraling desire, and when he twisted his wrist over the head, his knees nearly buckled.

“Come on, my Heart, let us hear you.” Voldemort’s voice resonated, dark and rich, carrying a command so intoxicating it sent shivers down Harry’s spine. It wasn’t the chilling tone of the Dark Lord he had once feared—it was something far more dangerous, alluring.

Harry found himself on the verge of pleading, if only to feel that voice wrap around him, vibrate through him, settle into the very marrow of his being. Even through the closed door, it was powerful enough to draw an involuntary gasp from his lips, sharp and unbidden, a reaction he couldn’t suppress.

“Please, please,” Malfoy was begging loudly, unashamed and spellbinding. “I need you, stop teasing and please fuck me.”

Uncertain whose stead his body wanted to be in, it reacted as enthusiastically to Malfoy’s pleads as to Voldemort’s demands, his encouragements. His cock twitched unremittingly, his hand tightening as it glid feverishly over electrified skin.

“Whatever you desire, my Heart.” It was spoken so reverently, that Harry himself believed it. Within a blink of an eye, the sound of skin against sweat slick skin reverberated through the walls and almost subconsciously, Harry found himself matching the rhythm.

“Oh, gods,” Malfoy’s voice carried a rawness that struck Harry like a bolt of lightning, the exclamation unrestrained and unguarded. It resonated through the thick wood of the door, and Harry, despite himself, felt the echo deep in his own chest.

Famishment coiled hot and tight in his stomach, his forehead pressed to the frame, one hand bracing against the wall, wand still wrapped in his fingers.

“Good boy,” Voldemort praised, and, shamelessly, Harry fucked into his own wrist. “Come for me, will you?”

He did.

Harry’s breath stuttered as his climax wound its way from his groin to his toes. He bit his tongue bloody to keep the moan sealed between his lips when his spend shot in hot streaks over his knuckles and into the fabric of his borrowed pants.

“Come for us, for Harry and I.” Malfoy’s cry of release was intoxicating, a spur as he rode out his own orgasm.

The following quiet pressed down on Harry like a mass, thick and suffocating, broken only by the uneven cadence of his own breathing.

His chest heaved, each inhale dragging against the invisible noose of shame tightening around his throat. His skin felt too hot, his limbs too heavy, and the bitter tang of humiliation clung to the back of his tongue as he tucked himself in.

Whatever twisted game Voldemort and Malfoy had indulged in—whatever intimacy had spilled through the crack in the door—had drawn him in, made him linger.

He couldn’t deny it. His ears had strained for every sound, his pulse had thrummed in a rhythm he couldn’t blame entirely on shock. He had been pulled toward them, not by duty or revulsion, but by something else. Something darker.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as though he could claw the truth out of himself and crush it.

Hunger. Desire.

The words drifted unbidden through his mind, and no amount of force could shove them back into the recesses where they belonged. His body had reacted, his senses had sharpened, and the ache in his core was not borne of loathing.

It had been longing.

The realization hit like a blow, leaving him hollow and gutted.

Longing for what? For their touch? For their attention? For the way Voldemort’s voice had commanded, low and rich, or the way Malfoy’s cries had spilled out so freely, unrestrained by anything resembling fear?

No. It wasn’t that simple, couldn’t be that simple. He wanted something deeper, something he could barely begin to admit to himself.

His body wanted to be claimed, consumed, torn apart and pieced back together in their hands.

The thought was abhorrent, and yet it lingered, curling around his humiliation like a brand searing itself into his very soul. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him. And yet, it was there, undeniable and inescapable, gnawing at the edges of his tightly wound self-control.

No amount of logic or self-loathing could erase what he’d felt. He couldn’t undo the way their voices had wrapped around him, the way his own treacherous body had responded.

Finally, that was what made him flee—the soft murmur of Voldemort’s voice carrying through the door, low and intimate, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

It shattered whatever fragile resolve had kept him rooted to the spot, unlocking his feet at last. Like a thief in the night, he slipped away, his breath hitching with every step as though he might be caught at any moment.

The walk back to his rooms was a blur of pounding heartbeats and searing shame. By the time he reached the door, his hands shook as he pushed it open just enough to slip inside, careful to leave it ajar so the lock wouldn’t click shut and betray his return.

Leaning heavily against the wall, Harry struggled to steady his breathing. His body trembled with the aftershocks of what he’d heard, what he’d felt, and the weight of it pressed into his chest like a stone. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could scrub the memories from his mind as easily as chalk from a slate.

But there was no escape, not yet. The faint creak of floorboards beyond the thin walls of his room made his stomach churn. He could hear Voldemort’s footsteps—measured, deliberate—and the quiet murmur of words he couldn’t quite make out.

The noise clawed at Harry’s insides, a reminder of how deeply he had trespassed into something that wasn’t meant for him.

Panicked, desperate to purge himself of the feeling, Harry stumbled toward the bathroom. His feet carried him there as though it were the only sanctuary left.

He turned the faucet on, the roar of water filling the small space as he stripped hastily. The scalding spray was merciless against his skin as he stepped under it, letting the heat pour over him in punishing waves. He scrubbed his hands over his face, his chest, his arms, as though he could physically remove the shame that clung to him like a second skin.

The water stung where it struck raw, reddened flesh, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could be enough. No amount of scalding heat or furious scrubbing could undo the ache that had settled deep within him, or the truth that lay at its core—truth he wasn’t ready to face.

He slid down to sit on the tiled floor, water streaming over him as he rested his head against the cool, wet wall.

His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and his thoughts churned in relentless circles. What had he done? What had he felt? And why, no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t he make it stop?

Chapter Text

“We have to leave,” came the hissed words, frantic and cutting through the dark. Hermione’s heart lurched painfully in her chest as her eyes snapped open.

Before her mind could catch up, her wand was already in her hand, aimed unerringly at the looming shadow hovering by her bed.

“Hermione,” the shadow said again, and she recognized Harry’s voice—urgent, ragged, and desperate. “Please, we have to leave, right now.”

“Harry?” she whispered, squinting as she cast a shaky Lumos. Light flooded the room, revealing him hunched over her bed, his face stark white, his eyes wide with something bordering on mania.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost—or worse. His hair was more of a mess than usual, sticking up in wild, wet tufts as though he’d been running his hands through it in agitation.

“What’s wrong?! What happened?” Hermione shot up, her hands clammy as she clutched the blanket with one hand and her wand with the other. Fear coiled tight in her chest, her mind racing to conjure scenarios as terrifying as the look on Harry’s face.

For a moment, Harry just stood there, mouth opening and closing, as if he couldn’t quite string words together. His breathing came in shallow gasps, and his hands fidgeted at his sides. It was only then that Hermione noticed the faint tremor in them, the way his knuckles were stark against his pale skin.

“Did Voldemort—” she started, terror blooming fully at the thought.

“No!” Harry interrupted, his voice breaking on the single syllable. “It’s not—it’s not that. But we have to leave.” He stepped closer, pacing the length of her bed in a way that only heightened her anxiety. “Right now, Hermione. We can’t stay here.”

“Harry,” she said firmly, trying to ground herself in logic even as adrenaline coursed through her. “You need to explain. What’s happened? Are we under attack?”

He shook his head rapidly, his hands tugging at the hem of his shirt in agitation. “No, no attack,” he said quickly, but his voice was pitched high, and Hermione could see his panic hadn’t abated in the slightest.

“Then what?” she pressed, her voice softening but no less urgent. “You’re scaring me.”

Harry finally stopped his restless pacing, his shoulders heaving as he turned to face her. “I can’t—I can’t stay here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. His gaze flicked to the floor, unable to meet hers, and Hermione’s heart clenched at the raw helplessness in his expression.

“Why?” she asked, softer now, though her grip on her wand remained steady. “What’s happened?”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he closed his eyes tightly, his breath shuddering as if the words themselves were too painful to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, shaking with shame and self-loathing.

“Because I want them,” he said, the confession landing between them like a thunderclap. “I want themtonight.”

Hermione’s expression didn’t change, though her nod came slower than he would have liked. It felt too measured, too calm in the face of his unraveling, as though she was humoring him rather than sharing in his urgency.

Hermione sighed, her fingers rubbing small circles over his knuckles in an attempt to soothe him. It wasn’t working. “If you think running will help,” she said gently. “But, Harry, whatever’s happened, whatever you are feeling, it won’t stop following you just because we’re somewhere else.”

“I—” He broke off, shaking his head as if the words were too tangled to pull free. “You… knew, didn’t you? You suspected—about… them. About me.”

Her silence spoke louder than any answer could. She looked at him, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes were sharp and knowing.

“Hermione.” His voice cracked on the word, the syllables laden with disbelief and betrayal. “You knew.”

She sighed, her hands squeezing his briefly before she released them, sitting back slightly to give him space. “I suspected,” she admitted softly, her gaze never wavering from his. “But I wasn’t certain. Not until now.”

“Confound me,” he said after a moment, the words more a demand than a plea.

Hermione’s soft laugh settled over the tense air between them, and for a moment, Harry hated her for it—hated her ease when his entire world felt like it was shattering.

“I’m serious,” he ground out, his hands balling to fists. “Just—Confound me, Obliviate me, something. I don’t want to feel like this.”

She leaned forward again, her gaze sharp and steady as it met his. “Harry,” she said firmly, her voice tinged with that unmistakable edge of Hermione-like pragmatism. “Running from this—hiding from it—won’t solve anything. You’re not a child anymore. You don’t get to shove your feelings under the rug and hope they’ll vanish.”

His laugh was humorless, sharp, and bitter. “Feelings? I’m not even sure what the hell they are.”

“You don’t have to be sure,” she countered. “But you can’t ignore them either.”

“Why not?” he snapped, his voice rising as he pushed himself to his feet and paced the small room. “Why can’t I ignore them? Why can’t I just… go back to pretending they’re not there?”

“Because it’s not who you are, Harry,” she said simply, watching him with an almost maddening calmness. “You don’t bury your head in the sand, not when it matters. You confront things, even when they scare you. Especially when they scare you.”

He stopped mid-step, turning to face her with a look of incredulity. “This is different, Hermione. This isn’t some war I can fight or some dark curse I can break. This is… it’s personal. It’s dangerous. And I loathe it.”

Hermione nodded again, as though it was understandable he was feeling like this in the first place.

“How can you be so bloody calm about this?!” Harry’s voice cracked as it rose, his frustration spilling out in a jagged edge that hung between them.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Instead, she met his gaze with an unwavering steadiness that only seemed to fuel his bewilderment.

“I’m not calm,” she said gently, though her tone carried a weight that stilled the air. “I’m just… I’m prepared. Because I knew this was coming. Maybe not exactly this, but something like it. And I knew, when it did, you’d need someone to help you through it.”

“Then tell me, Hermione. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. Tell me how I’m supposed to deal with—” He faltered, his words catching in his throat. “—with whatever this is.”

She stood her ground, her expression indulgent but firm. “I can’t tell you what to do, Harry,” she said. “I can only help you figure out what you want to do. But first, you have to stop running from it.”

His pacing stopped abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides. “Running?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not running. I’m trying to… I’m trying to fix this.”

“Really?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Because just a few minutes ago it very much sounded like you were trying to run away.”

She sighed, stepping closer, her tone mollifying. “Harry, you’re allowed to feel confused. You’re allowed to feel angry. And you’re allowed to feel scared. But if you keep trying to push it all down, it’s only going to get worse.”

“So what? I’m just supposed to fuck them? See how it goes?” She blushed at his words, her composure breaking just slightly to show the discomfort she had carefully tucked away for his sake. Instantly, he regretted his harsh words.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Harry,” she said carefully, her tone gentle but firm. “And you know it.”

“I’m sorry.” He turned away, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Then what are you saying, Hermione? Because I don’t know how to make sense of this! Of any of this!”

“You’re putting so much pressure on yourself to figure it all out, to categorize it, to fix it. But feelings don’t work like that, Harry. They don’t fit neatly into boxes,” she replied. “For now, you need rest.”

“How, by Merlin’s beard, could I rest now?” Sleep was the furthest thing he could think of at the moment. “I’ve lost my bloody mind!”

“No,” she said firmly, stepping closer. “You’re human. You’ve been through more than most people could endure, and it’s okay to not have all the answers. But you need to give yourself the chance to breathe, to stop spiraling long enough to think clearly.”

He turned away from her, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. “Breathing won’t change the fact that I—” He faltered again, running a hand through his hair with enough force to pull at the roots. “This is unnatural, cursed, impossible.”

“How impossible is it really, Harry?” Hermione asked carefully. He didn’t turn to face her. “Think about Draco. If we had known you were gay back in school…it would have surprised no one if, one day, we’d find you in a broom closet with him.”

Now he did turn, mainly to gape at her. She was grinning. “Oh, come off it. You know as much as I do that that was nothing but sexual tension.”

He flipped her the bird and she grinned.

“Now…Voldemort? That…is more unexpected,” she admitted, her gaze sobering for a moment, but he could still see a smirk tugging at her lips. “Not in a million years would I have suspected you would want his—”

“Not helping ‘Mione!”

Hermione raised her hands, palms out, in a gesture of mock surrender, though her smirk lingered. “Alright, alright. But you can’t deny there’s some truth in what I said.”

Harry groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. “Sexual tension,” he muttered bitterly. “You’re mental, you know that?”

“Maybe,” she said lightly, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, her tone shifting back to seriousness as she patted the mattress next to her. “But you’re the one who’s panicking because you finally admitted to yourself that you’re attracted to two people who, for better or worse, have been at the center of your life for decades.”

He glared at her, though the heat behind it was dulled by exhaustion. “Draco, fine,” he relented, coming to sit next to her. “I can—sort of—wrap my head around that. But Voldemort? How the hell do I even begin to make sense of that?”

Hermione tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Maybe you don’t have to. Not right now, anyway.”

Harry turned to her with an incredulous look. “Not make sense of it? Do you hear yourself?”

“I do,” she replied evenly, unfazed by his tone as she moved to grab her wand. “And I think that part of what’s driving you mad is the need to label it, to put it in a box and shove it into some tidy corner of your mind. But maybe this doesn’t fit into a box, Harry. Maybe it’s messy and strange and… human.”

“Human,” he repeated flatly, his expression a mix of disbelief and despair. “Hermione, he’s—he’s Voldemort. The literal Dark Lord. There’s nothing human about him.”

“Isn’t there?” she countered quietly, and Harry didn’t protest when she spelled his shoes off. “He’s not the same Voldemort we fought against. You know that as well as I do. And whatever you feel about him now—whether it’s anger, attraction, or something else entirely—it’s tied to who he is now, not who he was then.”

“I suppose, he is not as horrible now.” Harry muttered as he let her tug him onto the bed and under the duvet. “He still killed my parents. Gods, what would my parents think?!”

“Well, I think Lily would say you already know the answers, Harry. Trust yourself. Isn’t that what she told you?” Hermione replied, extinguishing the Lumos with a gentle wave. “Give your Mum more credit, she knew what she was talking about.”

Harry stared at the dark ceiling; the duvet pulled up to his chin. “You think so?”

Hermione yawned, pulling herself closer to Harry and cuddling up to his chest. Absentmindedly, he wrapped an arm around her warm frame. “She was the brightest witch of her generation. She knew.”

“Hermione?” He asked into the dark, carefully and quietly.

“Yes, Harry?” She mumbled, already half asleep.

“I never want to talk about this ever again.”

“Sure, Harry,” she replied, yawning and cuddling still closer to him.

The room fell into a soft stillness, the only sounds the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall and Hermione’s even breathing as she drifted into sleep against him. Harry’s arm tightened around her instinctively, though his gaze remained fixed on the dark ceiling above.

Her words replayed in his mind, intertwined with his mother’s. You already know the answers, Harry. Trust yourself.

The sentiment echoed, relentless and insistent, refusing to fade into the quiet of the night. Did he know? Could he trust himself?

He wasn’t so sure.

The warmth of Hermione’s presence was grounding, her trust in him unwavering even in her unconscious state. He envied that certainty.

She knew what she was talking about. He harbored the faintest hope that Hermione was right. Maybe Lily had seen something in him he was still struggling to see in himself.

A bird trilled outside, its song cutting through the quiet like a gentle nudge. Harry’s gaze shifted toward the window, where the faintest light of dawn was beginning to seep through the curtains.

He hadn’t slept, his mind too tangled in thoughts of what was, what is, and what might be.

He looked down at Hermione’s peaceful form, her face soft in slumber. She trusted him—she always had, even when he didn’t trust himself. And perhaps that was a kind of answer in itself.

Harry sighed quietly, his breath stirring the curly hair at her temple. One step at a time, he told himself, though the path ahead still seemed impossibly unclear. The first rays of morning filtered through the room, and he stared into the light until it grew too bright to ignore.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Eventually, Harry had slipped out of Hermione’s bed, replacing himself with a warmed pillow to prevent disrupting her sleep.

On socked feet, he had tapped across the hallway and to the room Albus and James now shared. The Manor was still, the early morning sun warming the floorboards and casting the old walls in a golden light.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, stepping carefully into the curtain-dimmed room.

The space was impersonal, its striped light-blue walls and neutral beige bedding lending it the sterile charm of a guest room rarely used.

A single painting hung on the wall—a serene depiction of the fountain outside, its water cascading in an endless, muted loop. The flow of it seemed to echo the quiet rhythm of the boys’ breathing.

Harry hesitated just inside the door, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace of their slumber. Instead, he moved silently to the armchair tucked into the corner, furthest from the windows, and sank into its cushioned embrace.

His gaze drifted toward the bed where James and Albus lay, their forms barely visible beneath the neatly tucked blankets.

Relief still coursed through him at James’s request for their own space—a tangible sign of growing security and confidence.

Malfoy had offered this room without hesitation, its proximity to Harry’s own no doubt intentional. It was just across from Hermione’s and adjacent to the girls’ room—a quiet, safe haven nestled in the heart of the manor. For that, at least, Harry could be grateful.

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion and the ever-present edge of worry. The stillness of the room, broken only by the soft cadence of his sons’ steady breathing and the faint stirrings of the waking world beyond the window, wrapped around him like a fragile cocoon.

For now, they were safe. And for now, that was what mattered most. The terror, the shame, and the ache of the night felt like a distant storm, its edges dulled by the creeping light of dawn as sunrays slipped through the narrow gap in the curtains.

Harry clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into the worn arms of the chair. Regardless of what Hermione had said—her assurances, her quiet insistence to confront what lingered—he resolved to bury it. He would lock it away, pretend it never happened.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, as if he could will the memories into retreat, force the heat and longing that had seized him into some forgotten corner of his mind. It was foolish, he knew, but right now, denial was safer than acceptance.

Chapter Text

“I have earned the right to oversee this case,” Vera said, her voice steady despite the anger raging through her chest. “No one understands the subject better than I do. My credentials speak for themselves.”

The faint smell of leather and dusty tobacco hung thick in the air. Everything in the Deputy Secretary’s domain seemed to exude a kind of oppressive authority, a reminder that this was his space, and she was merely a guest, a servant—one he tolerated only as long as it suited him.

She sat stiffly in the chair opposite his massive desk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to conceal the tremor in her fingers. This man had a way of pulling her control taut like a bowstring, and she could feel it threatening to snap.

The Deputy Secretary leaned back in his chair, his perpetual sneer curling at the edges of his mouth as his dark eyes bore into her.

“No,” he said simply, his voice dripping with condescension. The word landed like a slap, and Vera’s fingers twitched toward her wand. The urge to hex him, to curse him into silence, burned at the edges of her control.

The bastard chuckled, low and derisive. “Your credentials are the only reason you’re here at all, Vera. Don’t mistake that for a right to make demands.”

“I’m not demanding,” she countered, her words clipped and precise. “I’m stating a fact. I’ve spent more time analyzing this case than anyone else in your operation. If you want results, I’m your best option.”

“And yet,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, “your results thus far have been… unremarkable.”

The jab stung, but Vera forced her expression to remain impassive. She couldn’t afford to let him see how deeply his words cut. She had learned long ago how to bury the fire that rose in her throat whenever she was dismissed or diminished. If she let it show now, it would only give him more ammunition.

“I’ve been working with limited resources,” she said tightly, each word deliberate. “If I were stationed at the facility itself—”

“You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” His voice cut through hers like a blade, cold and sharp. “Let me remind you, Vera, of your… precarious position here.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an outburst, no matter how much she wanted to hurl the chair she was sitting in straight at his head.

“Dr. Curie, for example,” he continued, his smile curving into something cruel. “You couldn’t possibly call that endeavor a success.”

Vera’s hands tightened in her lap, her nails digging into her palms. She fought to keep her breathing even, to keep the panic from seeping into her voice. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

“Dr. Curie was inaccessible,” she lied through gritted teeth. “They had her locked down. No one could have reached her. There was no way I could have gotten her out of that dungeon.”

“Ah,” the Deputy Secretary said, his voice slick with mock understanding. “And yet I find myself wondering… What do you think the Wizarding Lord would trade her for?”

Vera froze, her heart thundering in her chest.

“I have the suspicions,” he continued, leaning forward now, his voice almost conspiratorial, “that the Dark Lord Voldemort is looking for one very specific witch, is he not?”

“You wouldn’t trade me for Dr. Curie,” Vera said, forcing herself to sound confident, even as fear tightened its grip on her throat.

“If you believe she would serve you better than I would, that’s your prerogative.” She shrugged, a little too casual. “But if you value progress over politics, you’ll keep me where I can do the most good. I am ten times the scientist Dr. Curie is.”

“And yet,” he said, his sneer deepening, “you still haven’t delivered the one thing we need.”

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her gaze fixed on him, refusing to look away. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Time,” he repeated, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Time is a luxury we can ill afford, Vera. You’d do well to remember that.”

She wanted to snap back, to tell him that he didn’t understand what it was like to be in the field, to work tirelessly with so little support. But she knew better. Men like him didn’t listen to reason.

“I’ll deliver,” she said instead, her voice low but firm. “Reassign me and you’ll get what you need.”

The Deputy Secretary regarded her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if he were searching for cracks in her resolve.

Finally, he leaned back, a thin smile spreading across his face. “Fine. See that you do,” he said softly. “Because if you don’t, Vera, I’ll have no choice but to… reassess your value.”

Vera rose from her chair, her movements sharp and deliberate. She didn’t thank him, didn’t spare him another glance as she turned and strode toward the door.

“One more thing,” he added, his voice almost casual. “The subject—Lily Potter. Are you prepared to do whatever is necessary to ensure her cooperation?”

Her breath hitched ever so slightly, but she masked it with a sharp nod. “Of course.”

“Good,” he said, his smile twisting into something that sent a shiver down her spine. “Because if you fail me again, I won’t hesitate to find someone who won’t.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

The dining room was far too bright for Harry’s liking, the morning sunlight glinting off polished silver and golden hues spilling across the table. It was the kind of setting that demanded calm civility, and Harry felt anything but calm.

He stabbed at his eggs with a bit more force than necessary, hyper-aware of every glance, every movement at the table. Particularly the amused, knowing ones that seemed to come from the head of the table, followed by the faint emotion of satisfaction through a muted bond.

“Did you sleep well, Harry?” Voldemort’s voice was silky and casual, but it carried a deliberate edge, one that made Harry’s ears burn.

Harry forced himself to look up, just briefly, meeting those crimson eyes that glinted with far too much amusement for breakfast. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, his tone stiff as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

“Really?” Voldemort drawled, leaning back in his chair with a deliberate elegance that only made Harry feel more out of place. “You seem a touch… restless this morning. Vivid dreams?”

Harry choked on his tea, coughing violently as he grabbed blindly for a napkin, the sound startling everyone at the table.

“You okay, Papa?” Albus asked softly, his small hand already offering a napkin.

Harry accepted it with a forced smile, his throat burning as he wiped at his streaming eyes. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though his flushed face and watery eyes betrayed him.

“Are you sure, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was casual, but his silver eyes studied Harry with an intensity that made Harry instantly regret listening to Hermione this morning. He didn’t need breakfast. He needed to be far away from this table, this house—anywhere but here.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, the words snapping out of him with an edge he hadn’t meant.

Malfoy arched a single brow, his expression skeptical. “You don’t look fine. In fact, you look—”

Harry lifted his head, ready to counter with some half-formed retort, but the words faltered in his throat when Malfoy cocked his head to the side.

The motion was unassuming, almost careless, but it exposed the faintest trace of a mark on his neck, a shadow of something that shouldn’t have drawn Harry’s gaze as much as it did.

The mark was small, just a faint crescent of color against pale skin, but it sent Harry’s stomach twisting in ways he couldn’t name, heat crawling up his neck and blooming in his cheeks.

Merlin help him.

He ducked his head quickly, focusing on his plate as if the act of cutting his toast into perfect, uniform squares could save him from the chaos churning inside him.

His hand trembled slightly, but he gripped the knife tighter, refusing to let it show. “I said I’m fine,” he repeated, though the words came out tight and clipped.

There was a beat of silence, and Harry could feel Malfoy’s gaze linger on him, sharp and unrelenting.

“Hmm,” Malfoy hummed thoughtfully, dragging the sound out just enough to make Harry’s skin tingle with irritation—or something close to it. “You’re shaking, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth to snap back, but Hermione beat him to it, her tone casual but firm. “Maybe he’s just getting sick,” she said smoothly, her hand sliding to rest over his with a grounding pressure.

“I don’t think he seems sick,” Astoria interjected, her sharp gaze narrowing as she leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowing with concern. “Maybe I could—” She reached for her wand.

But before she could complete the thought, Hermione shook her head fractionally, the movement subtle but deliberate. Her eyes darted toward the far end of the table, where Voldemort was leaning back in his chair, his crimson gaze fixed intently on Harry. Then her gaze snapped back to Astoria, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Thank you, Astoria, but I think he’s fine,” Hermione said lightly, her hand giving Harry’s a subtle squeeze. “Harry just didn’t sleep well, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry nodded stiffly, his throat tightening under the weight of their collective attention. “Yeah,” he managed, glaring at the napkin in his lap as if it had personally offended him. “Just a bad night.”

“Of course,” Astoria replied quickly, her tone kind but her nodding a little too enthusiastic. “Though, I could prescribe you a calming draught for tonight?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Harry snapped, the tension in his voice sharper than intended. He bristled under the conspiratorial glances Astoria and Hermione exchanged. His hand tightened around his teacup, the porcelain growing uncomfortably warm against his palm, the tea swishing dangerously.

“Harry,” Hermione began gently, her voice tinged with that maddening note of concern he’d come to expect from her.

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, forcing a tight smile and looking up just long enough to meet her eyes before dropping his gaze again. “Really. I don’t need anything.”

“Clearly,” Malfoy murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he idly twirled his spoon. “You’ve never looked better, Potter.”

“Not everyone can look fit all the time, Malfoy,” Harry barked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He regretted it instantly as Malfoy’s wicked smile bloomed, sharp and far too pleased.

“Are you saying I look—”

“Harry! Would you like to read today’s paper?” Astoria interrupted with practiced sharpness, her voice cutting through the air like a spell. The rustling of the paper added to the distraction as she folded half with a little too much vitality and handed it to him.

Harry seized the paper as though it were a lifeline, burying his nose in it to escape the smug look on Malfoy’s face.

“Thank you,” he muttered, the warmth creeping up his neck betraying his attempt to appear unbothered.

“You’re welcome,” Astoria replied, her tone pointed as she cast a
warning glance at Malfoy, who thankfully remained silent.

Harry avoided everyone’s gaze as he straightened the pages, perusing the articles as though he had the context to understand what they were about.

Hector Hilgins from the Falmouth Falcons was marrying long-time rival Penelope Feng, a Holyhead Harpies seeker—neither name rang a bell.

Below the article, a garish photograph of the couple beamed at him, their Quidditch uniforms incongruously paired with floral garlands.

Further down the page, an announcement from Ollivander caught his attention. The wandmaker was recalling a new wand line crafted from American Sassafras wood, citing its “volatile reaction to Fluxweed.”

Why anyone would willingly choose Sassafras for a wand utterly eluded him. Not that Harry had the faintest idea what Sassafras actually was—the name alone felt like the punchline to a joke he wasn’t quite in on.

He turned the page, his eyes skimming over a headline about the rising popularity of Muggle deterrents in private artifact collections. His gaze dropped toward the bottom, where bold, swirling letters leapt off the page.

“Annual Mischief Sale! Get Ready to Laugh Your Wands Off at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!”

Beneath the announcement, a tagline danced with playful animation: “Make Fred Proud—Keep the Mischief Alive!”

Harry’s gaze lingered on the ad, longer than he intended. A familiar ache tugged at his chest, a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and the faint, ever-present shadow of grief.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It had been ages since he’d stepped foot in the joke shop, and now, the bright chaos of the place seemed like a beacon of everything his life wasn’t: carefree, vibrant, and hilariously absurd.

He folded the paper neatly, setting it aside as he leaned back in his chair. The clatter of dishes and the laughter of the children at the other end of the breakfast table felt like a distant echo against his restless thoughts.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice drew him back. She was watching him, brow furrowed in that way that suggested she was preparing for an argument. “What is it?”

He hesitated. “I think we need to get out of here and do something fun.”

The laughter at the far end of the table stilled momentarily, the children’s ears clearly perking up at the suggestion. Hermione, on the other hand, leaned forward, suspicion etched into her expression. “Get out of here?” she repeated carefully. “What do you mean?”

Harry gestured vaguely toward the window. “We’ve been cooped up in this place for too long. The kids need to get out, have some distractions. Some normality.”

“And where, exactly, are we going to find normality?” Hermione asked, folding her arms. “There’s nothing normal about any of this.”

“We’re going to Diagon Alley,” Harry said decisively, ignoring her pointed look. “To see George. He’s having a sale at the shop. The kids will love it.”

“You’re kidding.” Hermione’s tone was flat. “You want to take your sons—your very recognizable sons—to a magical joke shop? I think it would be better to keep a low profile, Harry.”

“They’ll be fine,” Harry insisted. “As if we haven’t paraded them through Saint Mungo’s with frequency. You think that is keeping low profile?”

Hermione’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re running, Harry. You’re trying to distract yourself.”

“Maybe I am,” Harry snapped, then softened his tone when the children’s heads turned. “But it doesn’t change the fact that they need this. And maybe I do too.”

Astoria interjected smoothly. “Maybe he’s right.”

Hermione turned to her, surprised. “You think it’s a good idea to take the children to Diagon Alley?”

Astoria tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I think a little distraction could do them good. The boys have been adjusting well, but they’re still finding their footing. Something like this—a bit of fun, a reminder of what life outside these walls can be like—might help.” She looked at Harry. “For all of you.”

Minnie’s eyes were wide with excitement, while Albus leaned forward eagerly. “Can we go, Papa? Please? Rosie says Uncle George’s shop has magical stuff that explodes!”

Harry smiled faintly, the edges of his distress softening at their enthusiasm. “Yeah, we can go.”

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. “This is a bad idea,” she muttered. “But fine. If you’re set on this, I’m coming too. Someone has to make sure this doesn’t turn into a disaster.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said sincerely. He turned to the children. “Finish your breakfast, and then we’ll get ready.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

“Where do you think you’re going?” Harry hissed as the children sat on the floor, tying their shoes and buttoning their rain jackets.

“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, apparently,” Voldemort drawled as he stood leaning against the floo system, picking lint of his coat as though he was tired of waiting.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper as he took a step closer to Voldemort. “You are not coming.”

Voldemort raised a single, absent brow and flicked another piece of imaginary lint off his immaculate coat. “And why not? Am I not entitled to an afternoon of amusement?”

“This is not a game,” Harry snapped, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “You’ll turn this into a spectacle, and the last thing the children need is more attention—or more danger.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes glinted as he straightened from his languid pose. “My Soul, I am well aware of the risks. I am also more than capable of protecting the children, should the need arise.”

“That’s not the point!” Harry hissed; his voice dangerously low. “This is about giving them a break, some semblance of normality. And you, standing in the middle of Diagon Alley, all… all bald headed and red eyed, is about as far from normal as it gets.”

Hermione, standing at the edge of the room with her arms crossed, finally interjected. “Harry’s right. It’s a sensitive situation. Maybe—”

“I am not asking for your permission,” Voldemort interrupted smoothly, his gaze shifting briefly to Hermione before settling back on Harry. “The children are as much my responsibility as they are yours. If anything, my presence ensures their safety.”

“They are not your responsibility, they are mine. And what you’ll do is frighten all the other children in the shop.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Voldemort asked, his head tilting with an unsettling, serpentine fluidity, the tip of a split tongue flicking out briefly as if tasting the tension in the air.

“Yes!” Harry snapped, nodding with exaggerated force as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flicked thoughtfully toward the children, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he shifted. Bone-white skin softened to a warm, human hue; the crimson in his eyes dimmed to a deep, wine-rich shade.

Dark curls framed an aristocratic face that was disarmingly elegant, a visage so seamless in its transformation it felt as though he had merely shed one mask to reveal another.

What unsettled Harry most, however, was the immediate calm that washed over him—a stark reminder of how disturbingly accustomed he’d become to this version of Voldemort.

“Then, do you prefer this, Harry?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice retaining its smooth and deliberate tone. Yet now, there was an unmistakable lilt of amusement, a teasing edge that suggested he already knew the answer.

The sharp click of polished soles against the marble floor echoed through the hall, sparing Harry from the need to respond.

His gaze snapped upward, landing on Malfoy as he descended the staircase with deliberate, though cautioned precision. His coat was buttoned to perfection, his scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, the very picture of composed elegance.

“Going somewhere?” Harry asked, his tone sharper than he intended, as though the tension lingering between him and Voldemort had found a new target.

Malfoy paused midway, his silver eyes glinting in the morning light as he looked down at them. “To the joke shop,” he replied coolly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He finished his descent with a casual flick of his scarf.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You’re not going.”

Voldemort’s voice overlapped his. “Absolutely not.”

Malfoy froze for the briefest of moments before turning to look at them both, an expression of pure incredulity lighting his features. “Really?” he asked dryly, his tone edged with disbelief. “You didn’t seem to have that sentiment last night when—”

“Fine, you can come!” Harry interrupted, his voice a shade too high, his cheeks burning.

“Salazar,” Voldemort murmured under his breath, his own expression betraying a flicker of annoyance before he forced a clipped nod. “Very well.”

Malfoy smirked, his triumph evident as he brushed past them both, his head held high. “Glad we’re all in agreement,” he said smoothly, stepping toward the children. He winced as he crouched to help Minnie spell her shoelaces into a neat bow.

Chapter Text

Wherever they had landed was decidedly not Diagon Alley.

There was no warmth to the space, no laughter echoing between uneven brick, no scent of roasted nuts or wand polish carried on the wind. Instead, a hush blanketed the chamber, too polished to be welcoming, too pristine to be real.

Vaulted ceilings arched like the inside of a cathedral, enchanted runes pulsing faintly across white stone like veins beneath pale skin. The magic was old and humming and cold, threaded into the bones of the room like it had been waiting here, dormant, for someone exactly like him.

Harry didn’t mean to move.

But his wand was in his hand, raised, steady, the wood warm against his palm, his grip unyielding, pointed at the chest of the young man standing stiller than any target Harry had ever trained on.

The man’s robes were ceremonial—deep onyx embroidered with intricate gold, too clean to be practical, too ornate to be comfortable. The kind of clothing worn for rituals or burials, not anything in between, and Harry’s stomach twisted sharply, uneasily, because robes like that only ever meant that something important was about to be taken away.

“Welcome, oh…” the man started, but his words faltered as soon as their eyes met, as soon as he saw Harry’s wand and Harry’s face and whatever look was carved into it, because the man’s face went slack with fear, his voice thinning into silence, his raised hand freezing mid-gesture like even he wasn’t sure if it had meant greeting or surrender.

Harry didn’t lower his wand.

His vision narrowed, blurring at the edges not from magic but memory. Flashes of stone and shadow, voices hissing through the dark like knives drawn in mockery—and his heart twisted in his chest like a fist had closed around it. His body, traitorous and well-trained in his youth, remembered exactly what to do when it wasn’t safe.

The first syllables of a curse curled at the back of his tongue like instinct, like breath.

“Harry.”

The voice cut through it—not sharp, not commanding, just quiet and close and too familiar, and it wrapped around his name like silk wraps around a throat.

Voldemort.

The calm in his voice was almost gentle, which made it all the more maddening. “Lower your wand,” he said, soft but certain. “This man is no threat to you.”

Harry’s eyes didn’t move, but he could feel the man in front of him tremble, and he could feel the man behind him even more clearly, the heat of him blooming at his back like the sun behind a curtain, the kind of presence you didn’t need to see to know it was dangerous.

“Welcome to Ewald’s Emberlink Express,” the attendant tried again, his voice brittle and stretched thin like it might crack under the weight of another breath, “The… the private landing site of the Elite.”

Harry didn’t hear the words so much as feel the rhythm of them—rehearsed, ceremonial, useless—and still his eyes scanned the room, clocking every exit, every flicker of motion, every place a spell could ricochet or rebound, and none of it looked familiar and none of it felt safe.

“It’s not a trap,” he told himself, but the words didn’t settle.

“Look at him,” Voldemort murmured again, and Harry could feel him moving, not closing the distance but pressing into it with sheer presence, a silent promise curled beneath his stillness.

Harry’s nerves were frayed wires strung too tight, thrumming with phantom spells and unspoken memories, and still he didn’t lower his wand, even as his chest began to ache with the pressure of breath held too long.

A hand closed around his wrist. Firm but not forceful, warm, familiar in the wrong way, and before he could think, before the world could catch up, Harry moved.

His elbow flew back on instinct, fast and hard, and it connected with something solid—a body, breath knocked out of lungs, a muttered curse barely masked as concern.

“Upff. Hey, what the hell, Potter…”

The haze fractured.

Harry blinked. Malfoy staggered back a step, one hand pressed to his side, the other half-raised in mock surrender. The usual smugness was gone from his face, replaced not with anger, but something quieter. Something that looked, unsettlingly, like understanding.

“Easy,” Malfoy said, his voice pitched low, steady in the way that meant he had done this before. “It’s just me. You’re not there anymore.”

The words were simple, but they landed with weight, and Harry hated how they lodged inside him like a stone caught in his throat.

Behind him, Voldemort shifted—no rebuke, no warning, just a subtle movement, a ripple in the magic around them as if he were still deciding whether to intervene at all.

“I told you not to provoke him,” Voldemort said, not to Harry, not unkind, just flatly.

“I wasn’t provoking him,” Malfoy replied, dragging in a shallow breath, still pressing lightly at his ribs. “I was trying to help.”

Harry turned toward him slowly, warily, and his voice cracked around the question that felt far too raw. “Why?”

Malfoy tilted his head, and his expression—when it finally settled—was almost gentle.

“Because I know what it feels like,” he said. “To hit back before you mean to. To feel your heart clawing at your ribs like it’s trying to escape. To forget, just for a second, where you are and what year it is and who’s still breathing beside you.”

He gave Voldemort a pointed glance. “Usually, it was at him.”

Harry didn’t know what to do with that—didn’t know how to reconcile the image of Malfoy bleeding panic with the man standing casually before him, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve like none of it mattered, like everything mattered.

Malfoy glanced at the stunned attendant and added dryly, “Just don’t take it out on Ewald. He’s clearly already traumatized.”

The man let out a small, high-pitched squeak. No one acknowledged it.

“Would you like to return home?” Hermione asked, her voice a hush beneath the tension.

Harry didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He could feel her gaze, could hear the care buried beneath her composure.

But something else pulled his attention—a smaller weight, quieter still.

He turned just slightly and found the children standing behind him, Rosie half-cloaked by Hermione’s side, Albus holding tightly to Minnie’s hand.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their eyes were wide and silent and waiting. Hopeful.

“We can come back another day, Potter,” Malfoy offered, less gentle, less patient, but still… something. As though it was his attempt at returning to normality. “Though if I’d known your delicate constitution would derail our morning, I might have stayed in bed.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, forced himself to breathe, to focus, to ignore the sharp, residual twitch beneath his skin that made him want to throw something or run.

“No,” he said at last, voice even but quiet. “I have faced worse than this.”

Malfoy snorted, gesturing lazily toward the still-stunned attendant. “What, Ewald here? I mean, it’d be close, but I think between us, we could take him.”

“Actually, my name is—” the man began, but Harry had already turned.

“No, you prick,” he muttered to Malfoy, voice low and frayed. “Freezing up.”

He didn’t flip him off only because Albus and Rosie were still watching, their eyes full of too much.

He tucked the moment into himself, tightened his jaw, and stepped forward.

One step, then another.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Conspicuously, Draco rubbed his chest, grateful, grudgingly, that Potter hadn’t aimed higher. The blow had bruised, but not broken; nothing torn open, nothing re-ruptured. The ache, he could live with. He had lived through worse.

Beside the ache, something lighter stirred. A flicker of boyish thrill he hadn’t felt in years, rising sharp and bright with every step he took toward the great ivory double doors. He hated himself for it a little. But not enough to stop it.

He had, on occasion, imagined this moment.

Always in private, of course, always briefly, the indulgent edge of a superiority complex he refused to acknowledge in polite company. Potter, after all, had always brought out the worst in him. And the best. And the desperate need to be seen.

So he didn’t look back as he raised his wand, the charm whispered with more flourish than strictly necessary, and the doors swung open on well-oiled hinges, sunlight pouring into the marble chamber in a warm, golden flood.

The wind greeted him gently, warmer than expected, carrying the scent of parchment, steam, and spellfire, wrapped in the faint sweetness of candied ginger and morning pastry. The air shimmered faintly, alive with the hum of traffic and laughter and soft magical resonance. And for a moment, Draco allowed himself to simply breathe it in.

His Diagon Alley.

Ten years ago, it had been a husk with shuttered storefronts, half-burned signs, magical residue clinging to the cobbles like ash that wouldn’t wash away. But now…

It was louder. Brighter. Wider. The street had been restructured with elegant charmwork, expanded just enough to allow space between footfalls but not enough to lose the intimacy of its corners. Sleek white stone wove between the original cobbles like veins of quartz, catching the sun in soft glints.

Storefronts had grown—not just taller, but grander, layered with enchanted balconies and arched windows that curved like quills or curled parchment. Signs hovered lazily overhead, shifting with the light, blooming open when approached to reveal gold-lettered offerings and iridescent product displays.

Shops had spilled into the street, unapologetically; hovering cauldrons bubbling with smoke the color of violet dusk, potion vials glowing with slow-pulsing light, towers of crystalized fruit dancing in spirals above enchanted carts. Cloaks shimmered in starlight hues, broomsticks glinted with embedded runes.

Children darted through the chaos, ducking beneath floating advertisements, giggling as they tugged parents by the hand or whispered conspiratorially into enchanted mirrors. Laughter tangled with the chiming bells of shop doors and the flicker-pop of street performers casting illusion spells in the middle of the square. Magic pulsed here, not cautiously, not defensively, but proudly.

This, Draco thought, a little breathlessly, was what he’d built.

Or at least, what he’d pulled from the wreckage.

With funding, with vision, with the terrifying and thrilling autonomy afforded by proximity to power—his power, and his husband’s—he had stitched Diagon Alley back together not with glue and guilt, but with glamour and intention. He had not rebuilt what was. He had reimagined what could be.

Footsteps behind him. A hesitation. A breath.

Draco turned slightly, not needing to, but wanting to.

And there he was.

Potter.

Standing just inside the threshold, eyes wide—not with suspicion, not with panic, but with something softer. Something Draco had only seen once before.

Wonder.

It hit him all at once, that memory: first-year, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Potter standing there, eyes too big for his face, trying to take it all in without flinching. Back then, Draco had found it infuriating, how easily Potter’s wonder made everything else look dull.

Now…he found he didn’t mind it so much.

Potter’s eyes moved slowly across the skyline—over floating balconies and silver-threaded awnings, over storefronts twined in ivy and glowglass, over the street performers and the cluster of children playing tag through the legs of a mechanical basilisk with a shimmering leash.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Draco’s hands were folded neatly behind his back, but he could feel the ache blooming in his chest again, not from the bruise this time, but from something else entirely.

He cleared his throat. Tried for casual. “Well?” he said, the word laced with practiced indifference.

Potter turned his head, slowly, still caught in the middle of the vision, and met his eyes.

“It’s…” he started, and stopped. His brow furrowed slightly, as though words were failing him, and for once, he didn’t seem embarrassed about it. “It’s beautiful.”

Draco looked away.

Not out of shame.

But because the knot in his chest had pulled tighter, and he wasn’t entirely certain what would unravel if he let himself hold that gaze a moment longer.

It was Rosie who moved first. Her small hand slipping from Albus’s and reaching instinctively for the magic flittering the air. Her curls bounced as she stepped past Potter without hesitation, her eyes gone wide and luminous with unguarded wonder.

“Is that a floating bakery?” she whispered, eyes fixed on a storefront where candied tarts circled midair in a glowing spiral, drifting just out of reach from giggling children and impatient adults alike.

Beside her, Albus stared upward, slack-jawed. “There’s a moving staircase on the roof,” he breathed. “Who puts a staircase on the roof?”

“People who can afford it,” James replied with practical awe.

Hermione was blinking rapidly, her eyes scanning signs and storefronts, lips pursed in quiet calculation. “How is the zoning managed?” she murmured, mostly to herself. “There’s no way you could expand the alley like this without interdepartmental coordination… unless someone rewrote the jurisdiction laws. Did someone rewrite the jurisdiction laws?”

“Yes,” Draco said smoothly, his voice pleasant but tight with barely restrained pride. “You’re welcome.”

“Was that entirely legal?” she asked, one brow arching with the weariness of a woman who’d spent too many years cleaning up bureaucracy.

Draco smirked. “It was legal the moment I did it.”

“Of course it was,” she muttered, though she didn’t sound truly irritated.

The children had already surged forward, their hesitance dissolved into delighted chaos. Rosie pointed to a window where enchanted teacups performed synchronized flips above rows of hand-painted kettles. Minnie was halfway to a display of glittering spell journals that flapped their pages like eagle-owl wings. Albus found a rack of self-inking quills and tried to convince them to write on his palm. Unsuccessfully so, considering their anti-stain magic.

“Stay close,” Potter called after them, though his voice lacked any real warning. They were still within sight, still tethered to the group, but the city had them now—had all of them, if Draco was honest.

And the city, in turn, seemed to notice.

People made room as they passed, subtly and without ceremony. Like water parting around stone. A sideways glance here, a murmured greeting there. No one ran.

Instead, they bowed. Not deeply. Just enough to acknowledge Voldemort as he moved through the crowd, just enough to show that they remembered.

It was Minnie who finally asked, her voice curious rather than afraid: “Why are people doing that?”

“Because it’s Voldemort,” Albus whispered, giving her a look of childish importance, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“Duh, I know,” she whispered back, undeterred. “But why?”

Albus frowned, his brow knitting. The silence stretched a second too long. He opened his mouth, closed it again. “I mean… he’s… you know.”

Minnie waited. Albus said nothing.

Draco exhaled slowly. “Because when people fear someone for long enough,” he said, “they forget how to stop. And when the fear does fade—if it fades—it doesn’t vanish. It reshapes itself. Shifts.”

“Into what?” Rosie piped up.

She had drifted closer without anyone noticing, her wide brown eyes scanning the people parting like tidewater as they passed—heads bowed, gazes lowered, no one meeting their eyes for more than a second at a time. She watched them the way a painter studied shadows, as though trying to understand not what they were doing, but why.

“Deference,” Draco replied, folding his hands behind his back with practiced elegance. “Sometimes confusion. Sometimes relief. But mostly… memory.”

Minnie tilted her head. “That sounds like fear with extra steps.”

Draco blinked and then gave a short, quiet laugh. “More or less.”

There was a pause. A beat in which all of them were caught in motion and stillness at once, as the alley opened up around them and the past hung like silk-threaded dust in the air.

Without hesitation, Minnie quickened her step.

She slipped past Potter, past Hermione, past Draco himself, her steps light but certain, and slid her small hand into the crook of Voldemort’s arm.

The air caught.

Hermione stumbled, a sharp intake of breath betraying her instinct to lunge forward, to snatch the girl away, but she caught herself at the last second. Her fingers were flexing at her sides, her eyes wide and panicked and painfully maternal.

But Voldemort didn’t flinch.

He didn’t look down. He didn’t stop. Only his eyes shifted, the faintest turn of his head toward the girl now holding his arm with quiet defiance, as if daring him not to accept it.

Minnie looked up at him with something closer to challenge than awe.

“I’m not afraid, Mister Dark Tom,” she said plainly, her voice high and even and terribly sincere.

Silence.

It wasn’t a silence of fear, or dread, or shock—it was the kind that dropped like snowfall in the space between people, where something delicate and unspoken touched ground and held.

Draco’s mouth parted. He didn’t speak.

Hermione made a sound in her throat, not quite a gasp, not quite a word.

Voldemort, finally, looked down.

He did not smile. He did not scowl. He simply regarded her, this small, steady thing clinging to his arm as if she belonged there.

And then, with a grace that felt centuries too old for the moment, he shifted just enough to accommodate her height—a gesture so small it could have gone unnoticed, had anyone else done it. But in him, it was seismic.

Draco saw it. Felt it. And something in his chest twisted with a strange, reluctant warmth.

“You shouldn’t be,” Voldemort said at last, voice low and spare as winter. “You are far too clever for that.”

Minnie beamed up at him, her curls bouncing with delight. “I know.”

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

Harry stared after them, something slow and uneasy curling through his chest. There had been no threat in the moment. No flicker of dark intent. But still. The image of it—Minnie nestled comfortably beside Voldemort, her bright face turned up toward his unreadable one like they shared a secret—clung to Harry’s skin like humidity, like fever.

He had fought his life to protect his children, and Hermione’s, from the tyranny of the Dark Lord, and here the man walked, with her delicate trust in his arms.

Rosie reached for his own hand.

Her fingers were small and warm and covered in the faint stick of sugar-dust, and she tugged gently, grounding Harry in that simple, solid way only children could.

“You said I could pick two things,” she reminded him, her voice lilting with barely-contained delight as she pointed toward the shop window just a few steps ahead.

Harry blinked down at her, his thoughts still snagged on things he couldn’t name, but she was already pulling him forward, her grip light but sure, and the window of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes gleamed like a beacon in the afternoon sun.

Bright banners shimmered overhead, letters charmed to blink and bounce:
“ANARCHY IN A BOX! HALF OFF!”
“FIZZBANGS NOW IN FAMILY SIZE!”

A cardboard dragon reared behind the glass and belched red glitter onto a crowd of enchanted chocolate frogs dancing in perfect sync to a faint tinny tune playing from somewhere inside the store.

Rosie gasped. “That one’s doing ballet!”

Harry let out a breath, the edges of it frayed but real. The ache behind his ribs remained—the moment with Minnie still pressed like a thumbprint into the soft clay of his thoughts—but Rosie’s hand in his own was warm, real, now.

“All right,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Two things.”

“Three if I’m very good,” she bargained, not missing a beat.

Harry smiled faintly despite himself. “That depends on your definition of very.”

“Not elbowing anyone in the ribs?” she offered, without even looking up.

He winced.

Somewhere behind him, Harry could feel Malfoy smirking without needing to turn around—a smug little presence radiating from the corner of his awareness like a flicker of static in otherwise calm air. He chose not to dignify it.

Instead, he huffed out a breath and reached for the door, holding it open as Rosie tugged him eagerly forward. She barely gave him time to step inside before she abandoned his hand altogether, darting toward a trumpet-shaped object that gleamed gold and whinnied when touched.

The scent hit him first—smoke and sugar and something vaguely explosive—and then the color, all of it at once. The shop was an overwhelming riot of motion and light, banners flapping from the ceiling, enchanted merchandise hurling itself into baskets, shelves rearranging themselves mid-sale. It was chaos in the best possible way.

And yet, even as his eyes tried to adjust, Harry’s breath caught—not from the noise, not from the crowd—but from the figure emerging from behind a stack of Fizzbanging Firework Fedoras.

George.

If he had been ill-equipped for Ron’s volatile reaction to seeing him, he was wholly unprepared for George’s.

Because George didn’t pause. Didn’t blink.

The moment their eyes met, the world seemed to tilt—and the next thing Harry knew, he was off the ground.

At first, he assumed he’d been hit by one of the shop’s more rambunctious products, but as arms tightened around his waist and laughter filled his ears, realization dawned.

“Harry bloody Potter!” George bellowed, his voice a mix of joy and mischief as he spun Harry in a full circle before depositing him firmly on the ground. “What’s the occasion? Did Voldy let you off the leash for a bit of fresh air? You should read the papers! By Merlin—”

Harry scowled, though he couldn’t fully suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hello to you too, George. And no, he’s—”

“Here,” Voldemort’s unmistakable drawl cut in as he and Malfoy stepped through the shop’s threshold, the enchanted bell jingling in protest. The entire room seemed to still for a moment, a wave of unease rippling through the patrons.

George’s grin faltered, though only for a heartbeat, before it returned, wider and more impish than before. “Well, well, the infamous Dark Lord graces my humble establishment. Should I roll out the red carpet, or is this just a casual shopping trip?”

“I’m here for the entertainment,” Voldemort replied smoothly, his crimson gaze sweeping the shelves of vibrant chaos and trouble. “Though, I suspect your wares will disappoint.”

“Challenge accepted,” George said, his voice lighter now, though his eyes flickered with something sharp and assessing as they darted between Harry and Voldemort. “But seriously, Harry, what brings you here? Last I heard, you were holed up at Malfoy Manor of all places.”

“The kids needed a distraction,” Harry admitted, his voice quieter as his gaze flicked to his children, who were already darting between shelves, their laughter ringing through the shop.

George’s face softened as he followed Harry’s line of sight. “They’ve been through hell,” he agreed simply, his usual bravado giving way to something more genuine. “I’ll make sure they leave with enough loot to drive you mad.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Harry muttered, though a flicker of gratitude was evident in his tone. He paused for a moment, something twisting inside him as he glanced at George. The words hovered on his lips, heavy and awkward, but he forced them out regardless. “I’m sorry, George. I’m sorry about Ginny.”

George’s face darkened, not with anger, but with a discomfort that settled like a shadow over his features. His hands stilled where they were fussing with a pulsing purple box, and for a moment, the impish glint in his eyes dulled.

“She wouldn’t want you apologizing,” George said finally, his voice quieter, less sure. He avoided Harry’s gaze, focusing instead on the chaos his shop was barely containing. “She wouldn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. Not even you.”

“I know,” Harry admitted, his voice tight, his throat constricting around the guilt that had never truly left him. “But I still—I still feel like I should’ve done more. Been more, to protect her.”

George’s jaw worked, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he looked at Harry, his gaze steady but not unkind. “You did what you could. Still are, I know it. She knew what she was getting into, Harry. Don’t let it eat you alive.”

Before Harry could respond, George clapped his hands, his grin practically splitting his face. “Right then! Who’s brave enough to try the Exploding Eclairs? They taste like heaven—if heaven came with a kick in the teeth!”

The children surged forward with delighted shrieks, forming a mob around George. Harry barely managed to step aside before being jostled by a flurry of tiny hands and eager shoves.

He stumbled backward, his balance wavering until firm hands caught him from behind.

“Careful, Harry,” came Voldemort’s smooth voice, low and unsettlingly close. Harry’s spine stiffened as though an electric current had shot through him.

Harry straightened at once, jerking away slightly from Voldemort’s grasp as though the contact burned. “Thanks,” he muttered stiffly, the word awkward and unnatural on his tongue.

“That was… weird, wasn’t it?” he blurted, the haste in his voice betraying his unease. He turned sharply to Malfoy, desperate for some grounding normalcy.

Malfoy, however, was preoccupied, turning a pale blue wand over in his hands with the precision of someone expecting it to explode at any moment. James stood nearby, his eyes alight with mischievous anticipation.

“My husband? Always,” Malfoy replied airily, as he gave the wand a cautious tap. “Weirdness is practically part of his charm.”

“Not him,” Harry snapped, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to shake off the lingering tension. “George. He—he’s acting like nothing’s happened. Like… everything’s fine.”

Malfoy finally looked up, his pale brow arching in practiced skepticism. “And that surprises you? George Weasley practically built a business empire on repressing existential crises with fireworks and farting teacups.”

The wand gave an ominous click, and Harry instinctively took a step back. “Maybe don’t—”

But before he could finish, the wand erupted with a loud POP, sending a shower of glitter and streamers cascading over Malfoy. The silver and gold sparkles clung stubbornly to his hair and coat, catching the light like a festive explosion.

James doubled over with laughter, clutching his sides. “It’s brilliant! Papa, you have to try it next!”

Harry shook his head, his mouth twitching at the corners despite himself. “I think I’ll pass.”

Malfoy, meanwhile, stood rigid, his expression a study in icy disdain as he brushed at his glitter-covered sleeves. “Wonderful,” he deadpanned, glaring at James. “Care to fetch me a handkerchief?”

James grinned cheekily. “Why? It’s an improvement.”

“Potter spawn,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed him.

Chapter Text

They left Diagon Alley with too much sugar in their pockets and the sort of giddy exhaustion that came with a day spent indulging. The sun was beginning to lower, painting golden beams through the soot-streaked sky as Harry led them down the familiar cobblestone path to the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione tried not to smile. Not at his reluctance to return to Ewald’s Emberlink, of course, but at his barely hidden excitement to show his sons his first ever impression of Diagon Alley.

The pub hadn’t changed much since the war. Wooden beams still lined the ceiling, the hearth still gave off more smoke than heat, and the floorboards groaned like they had old grievances. But there were new things, too. Checkered curtains at the windows, a line of fresh wildflowers in mismatched vases on every table. The scent of butterbeer mixed with lavender and old ale, homey in a way Hermione hadn’t realized she had missed.

Draco, for his part, managed not to sneer. It was a subtle effort, tight around the mouth, a slight tilt to his chin, but Hermione noticed all the same. He was trying. Or pretending, which, in his case, often meant the same thing.

The bell chimed as they entered, and for a brief moment, it felt almost ordinary. Rosie and Minnie immediately began arguing over who would sit beside Harry. James darted off to examine the rack of Daily Prophets, muttering something about the lack of soccer scores. Even Albus, usually so careful and watchful, let his shoulders relax.

“Oh! Oh, my goodness. NEVI!” The barkeep called toward the back, her voice bright with delight. “Nevi, come quick! You’ll never guess who just walked in!”

Hermione blinked at her in surprise. Hannah Abbott was as round-cheeked and rosy as ever, her blonde hair twisted into a messy knot, a tea towel slung over her shoulder like it belonged there.

“Oh how wonderful, Harry! Hermione!” She rushed toward them with bright eyes and a big grin. Neville appeared seconds later, his cardigan slouching slightly off one shoulder and a dog-eared book clutched in his hand. “What is it…oh!” He dropped the book in his excitement. “Harry! Hermione! Merlin, look at you!”

He darted around the bar, grinning, arms wide. Harry laughed, welcoming Neville’s hug and clap on his shoulder with one of his own. “Me? Look at you! Owning the Leaky!”

“I was almost afraid I’d never see you again!” Neville looked like he might start crying when he turned to wave Hannah closer. “The Leaky is Hannah’s—”

He stopped short. Not because of Harry or Hermione, or the children who were now looking on curiously. But because of the tall, pale man who had entered behind them. Voldemort did not smile. Apparently he saw no need to. His presence filled the room like an absence of air and Hermione felt guilt bloom low in her chest—an intruder in their hard-won peace, dragging the war in behind her like a trailing cloak.

Hannah had gone very still, clutching the bath towel in her hand and glowering at Voldemort and Draco. Neville stepped instinctively in front of Hannah whether to shield her or stop her from doing something foolish, Hermione couldn’t tell.

Draco gave them a polite nod. “Lovely décor,” he said blandly.

Neville’s wand slid out from his sleeve. And Hermione saw with worry how Voldemort’s eyes narrowed onto the threat.

“Neville, it’s all right,” Harry said quietly. “We won’t stay long. We’ll just use the Floo and will be out of here in a second.”

Neville didn’t answer him. But Hannah looked at the children, at Hermione, at Rosie’s curls and Minnie’s mismatched socks. And then she forced a breath into her lungs and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Of course you’re welcome, Harry. Hermione. Please stay, we insist.” She said with more force than necessary. “You’ve got such beautiful little ones.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, gently, with the same tone she used for exhausted shopkeepers and mothers who hadn’t slept. She wasn’t sure what else to say but Neville picked up the thread quickly. “We’ve got a table free in the corner. Warmest one in the place. Come on, come on.”

He led them past a few quiet patrons, bravely ignoring the way Voldemort’s shadow seemed to suck the air from the room. The table was old and lopsided, but the benches were padded, and the smell of stew hung comfortingly in the air.

“Anything you want,” Hannah offered as they all settled in. “First meal’s on us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Longbottom,” Voldemort spoke calmly but not quietly, making himself comfortable at the end of the table, furthest away from the Longbottoms. “The generosity is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Hannah didn’t quite look at him as she hovered teacups and silverware onto the table. “Suit yourself, my Lord.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable enough for even Draco to cough lightly and attempt to break the ice. “Neville, what are you doing here? I heard you were the new Herbology Professor at Hogwarts this year.”

Hannah cut him a glare. “Because it’s Saturday, Lord Malfoy. Even professors get weekends.”

Draco, to his credit, nodded and bit his tongue.

Hermione leaned forward and pointed at the book still dropped by the bar. “What were you reading?”

Neville’s face lit up, visibly softening. “Oh! It’s called The Arts of Summoning Myths. Bit niche, I know, but fascinating stuff. There’s this theory about the Fern Flower. Supposedly, if you find it and consume it on the solstice, you gain the ability to speak to animals.”

Rosie perked up. “Even spiders?”

Neville winced as he summoned the book. “Er, maybe not spiders.”

He flipped a page reverently. “But some myths, you see, aren’t found. They have to be called. Summoned even.”

Hermione looked down at her teacup, the words echoing louder than they should. Some myths weren’t found. Some had to be asked to come.

“Hermione?” Harry surprised her with a gentle hand on her arm. She looked up to find Hannah watching her with expectancy and a little writing pad at the ready.

“Oh, umm,” she hadn’t heard the options and tried to remember whether she had seen a menu. She glanced to the next table over. Its patrons quickly looked away. “Stew?”

“Our specialty,” Hannah nodded and smiled carefully. Hermione could still see the tension in her mouth but appreciated Hannah’s attempts nonetheless.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Stew was a specialty indeed. It was hearty and perfectly spiced, the potatoes and the meat were cooked to perfection and even Rosie, Minnie, and Albus ate the green beans. Hannah stayed to the back while Neville tried to hold small talk with Harry without glancing over to Voldemort every few seconds. It was an awkward affair and when they left, Hermione could see the relief in Neville’s shoulders.

“Would you like to borrow the book?” Neville asked, voice hopeful as he pulled Hermione into a parting hug.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh, no—but thank you. You’ll have to let me know if it works, though,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes. “The fern flower, of course.”

Neville smiled awkwardly. “Will do, will do. Where should I send the owl? The Malfoys’?”

“For now, yes,” she said, her smile tilting slightly with something that looked like guilt but didn’t quite name itself.

“Right, then.” He turned to Harry, drawing him in for a brief, tight hug. “Take care of each other.”

“Always,” Harry murmured, clapping him once on the back.

And with that, the Floo swallowed them one by one, the green flame flaring and fading until the foyer came into view.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The manor was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that settles only after children have exhausted themselves with too much sweets, too much magic, and too much joy. Doors had been shut with gentle clicks. Lights dimmed. The corridors, once echoing with the high, clear pitch of laughter, had gone still.

Harry stood in the kitchen, the only illumination the pale golden spill of lanternlight above the stove and the flicker of the hearth in the far corner. He moved slowly, precisely, as if noise might draw them in.

He refused to be found by either of them. Not now. Not tonight.

The kettle hissed softly, and he poured the water over the loose-leaf tea Hermione insisted was better for his nerves. It smelled faintly of rosemary and orange peel. His hand lingered on the handle a second too long before releasing it, the copper clinking gently against the countertop.

Too much.

That was what this day had been. Too much of everything. Too much laughter. Too much history. Too much of Voldemort and Draco Malfoy existing in his peripheral vision like ghosts who refused to stay away.

He sat at the edge of the long kitchen table, cupping the tea between his palms. Letting it burn.

His thoughts, unwelcome and familiar, drifted first, as they often did, to Lily.

She would have loved it. He knew that with the kind of certainty that felt unfair in its clarity. Lily had always wanted color, adventure, the kind of mischief that came with ribbons and wind in her hair. She would have begged to fly between the floating storefront signs, would have peppered him with questions about the enchanted ceilings and the woman selling feathers that whispered in your ear.

She would’ve stood exactly where Minnie had stood, pressed to the glass of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with her whole soul poured into her eyes.

And he…he would’ve bought her anything.

Anything, he thought, throat tight. Everything.

He’d kept it together, mostly. Even when George caught sight of him and flung him into the air with a laugh far too bright to be real. Even when Rosie squealed with delight at the sound of dancing candy. Even when Albus dragged Minnie into a duel with a self-swinging bat.

But now, in the quiet, the weight began to creep back in.

He thought of George: his grin too practiced, his hug too long. The way his eyes had darted away the moment they were alone for half a second, how he’d suddenly remembered a shelf that needed restocking, a cousin to owl, a delivery to take whenever Harry had tried to reengage him. George, who had smiled like someone who’d learned to live inside the shadow of grief. Who had learned to cope.

Harry let the tea steep, untouched.

He didn’t begrudge him the avoidance. Not really. Not when he was doing the same. Skulking in the kitchen, avoiding the two men upstairs, one of whom had once tried to kill him and the other who had made sport of it.

And then there was Minnie. Who had taken Voldemort’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who had looked up at him with that wide, clever gaze and declared, I’m not afraid.

And she hadn’t been.

Harry exhaled, slow and sharp through his nose, the kind of breath that tried to carry something out and never quite succeeded.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more…the fact that Voldemort had accepted the gesture, or the fact that he’d done it without malice. As if there was a version of him that could be trusted. As if Minnie had somehow stepped into a parallel life, one where trust came easily, where the people who ruled the world didn’t seek blood on their hands.

It made Harry wonder, reluctantly, bitterly, what his own life might have been if Voldemort had been… sane.

What would it have meant if he had been a child in a world like the one Malfoy had built? One with magic stitched cleanly into the cracks, where fear wasn’t the undercurrent of every breath, every headline, every choice?

Would he have laughed more?

Would he have even existed at all?

His tea had gone cold.

He drank it anyway.

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

He had considered for days, had broken his mind over what if’s and what not’s. Now he stood shaking before the Dark Lord, lowering himself to begging.

“Why, Head Auror Weasley, I’m afraid I cannot grant you this… demand.” Voldemort’s voice was deceptively pleasant. He leaned back in his chair, his pale, skeletal hands folding with unnerving calm atop the dark mahogany desk. The contrast of his white skin against the polished wood was stark, likely deliberate.

Ron’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer, the anger simmering beneath his skin barely contained. “Why not?” he asked, the words sharper than intended. He caught himself, straightening stiffly. “My Lord,” he added belatedly, the title bitter on his tongue.

The Dark Lord’s lips curled. “Because, believe it or not, this is beyond my control.” His crimson eyes gleamed like bloodied rubies, catching the light in a way that made Ron’s stomach churn. “You see, Claire Howard is not merely your fiancée. She is Harry’s enemy. And as such, it would be… uncouth of me to make decisions on his behalf.”

Ron’s fists clenched at his sides. He felt the heat of rage creeping up his neck. “She’s not Harry’s enemy,” he argued, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. “She made a mistake, yes, but she’s no murderer. She doesn’t belong in Azkaban!”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “Doesn’t she?” he asked softly, the question hanging like a bait. “From what I’ve heard, your beloved Claire has been rather… resourceful in her duplicity. Or are you here to convince me that she’s merely a misunderstood victim?”

Ron’s breath hitched, his anger faltering under the weight of Voldemort’s calculated words. “She…she’s not perfect,” he stammered, forcing himself to meet those crimson eyes. “But she doesn’t deserve this. Exile her, send her away. That’s all I’m asking.”

The Dark Lord’s silence was oppressive, his gaze unyielding. Then, with a languid motion, he tapped a long, pale finger against the desk. “Exile,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue as though he were tasting it. “An interesting proposal.”

Ron’s heart leapt, hope flickering in his chest.

“But,” Voldemort continued, the word cutting through that hope like a knife, “I wonder, Head Auror Weasley, how Harry would feel about such a decision. After all, it is his trust you seek to undermine by protecting her.”

“I’m not undermining anyone,” Ron growled, his voice low. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“And is it the right thing,” Voldemort asked, leaning forward slightly, his crimson gaze boring into Ron’s, “to grant mercy to someone who betrayed the very cause she claimed to uphold? Tell me, Head Auror, where do we draw the line?”

Ron’s mouth opened, but no words came. His thoughts tangled in a web of guilt, anger, and something dangerously close to desperation.

Voldemort’s smile widened, as though he could see every thread of conflict unraveling inside Ron. “This is not a decision I can—or will—make lightly. If you wish for Claire’s fate to change, you will need to convince Harry. Perhaps he will show her the mercy you so desperately seek.”

Ron’s heart sank, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a vice. “And if he doesn’t?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible.

“Then I suppose,” Voldemort said, his tone light but his expression merciless, “you will have your answer.”

Ron’s jaw worked uselessly for a moment, like his words had turned to ash before reaching his tongue. He stood rigid in front of the desk, fists clenched, every muscle in his body taut with the effort not to lash out. Not in anger, but in grief. In fear.

“You’re punishing her because of me,” he said finally, the accusation flat and bitter.

Voldemort gave a soft, amused sound that might have passed for a laugh in another man’s mouth. “I assure you, Weasley, I do not expend energy on your punishment. Least of all for sentiment. This is not vengeance. It’s… precedent.”

“Precedent?” Ron repeated, his voice climbing an octave. “She gave information under duress, she didn’t…she didn’t kill anyone.”

“She endangered the life of a child,” Voldemort cut in, his tone still mild but now layered with something colder, something final. “And perhaps more damningly, she endangered Harry.”

Ron flinched. As if the name alone struck something vital inside him.

“She didn’t mean to—”

“Intent does not erase consequence,” Voldemort said. He stood now, slowly, as though gravity obeyed him differently than it did other men. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

The space between them narrowed with the simple act of Voldemort moving from his chair. He didn’t loom. He didn’t threaten. He simply was. Tall and pale and unblinking, as if the room and everyone in it bent subtly around him.

Ron drew in a shaky breath, then another, like he needed to count them just to stay upright.

“I love her,” he said.

The words came low. Raw.

Voldemort tilted his head, studying him. “And that is exactly why you are not the one who gets to decide what happens to her.”

Ron’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. “If it were someone you loved—”

“I would not ask another man for mercy,” Voldemort replied, his voice like silk wrapped around lead. “I would go to the one who held the knife and offer my throat myself.”

Ron stared at him, disarmed by the clarity of it. The cold logic. The cruelty of it, cloaked in something that felt almost… noble.

Almost.

“You are welcome to make your plea,” Voldemort continued, stepping toward the tall windows behind his desk. The morning light cut across the room in slanted gold lines, catching the fine threads of silver in his robes. “But you will make it to Harry. And I suggest you choose your words carefully.”

He paused, just short of the glass.

“She’s not a monster,” Ron said hoarsely. “She’s not the villain here.”

Voldemort didn’t turn. “Perhaps,” he said, almost gently. “But she chose the wrong side of history. And history is not known for its mercy.”

The silence that followed was heavy, final. Ron felt it settle over him like dust in a crypt.

When Voldemort dismissed him, Ron bowed.

A movement stiff, reluctant, and brittle at the edges, but expected nonetheless.

He held the posture for exactly as long as protocol demanded. Not a breath longer.

And when the heavy doors snapped shut behind him, sealing the office in with its shadows and blood-polished calm, Ron’s fury rose like bile in his throat.

It climbed too fast to be swallowed, lodged itself beneath his ribs, and twisted there.

“Fucking, hell,” he muttered, half-cough, half-snarl, the curse catching on the back of his teeth like a bone.

Eloise, Voldemort’s secretary, glanced up from her desk. Her expression was the kind of neutral that had taken years to perfect, but he caught the flicker of pity in her eyes.

And that…that was the final insult.

He barely kept himself from flipping her off on instinct alone.

Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked down the corridor, the echo of his boots too loud in the sterile quiet. The walls were too smooth. The sconces too polished. The air too still. The whole damn place reeked of sanctified power.

He hated how easily it made him feel small.

He didn’t stop until he reached the Auror wing. Not even to breathe.

His office door shut with a satisfying slam, rattling the nearby file cabinets and probably half the teeth in the portraits on the walls. He didn’t care. Let them rattle. Let them talk.

His office felt too small, too suffocating for the rage pressed tight beneath his skin. He shrugged off his robes and flung them toward the coat stand, missed entirely, and let them fall.

He paced once. Then again. His boots scuffed against the old wood floor, the sound ragged, sharp. He ran both hands through his hair, pulling once at the roots just to feel something real.

He had failed. Crimson-eyed bastard, Ron thought bitterly.

A knock sounded. Three quiet taps, then a pause, then a fourth.
Unassuming. Steady. Expected.

“Come in,” Ron said, voice low and hoarse with swallowed rage.

Paulen stepped inside. Trim and deliberate in his movements, he closed the door behind him with careful precision and took up his usual spot by the bookshelf. Not too close, not too distant. A practiced posture. Watchful without crowding.

He looked Ron over once. “Rough meeting?” Paulen asked, his tone cool.

Ron snorted and leaned forward against the edge of the desk. “That obvious?”

Paulen shrugged, loosening his collar with one hand. “You didn’t scream. I take that as progress.”

“I wanted to.” Ron’s voice was dark. “Would’ve felt bloody fantastic.”

Paulen studied him carefully. “So what was it.”

“He said no.”

“Of course he did,” Paulen said smoothly, almost absently. “Not his style, mercy.”

Ron’s eyes flicked to him. “He told me to convince Harry.”

“Ah," Paulen arched a brow. "So he passed the curse along. Convenient.”

“It’s a bloody death sentence.”

“Not necessarily,” Paulen said, his voice mild. “Unless you think Potter’s the type to let someone rot.”

Ron didn’t answer.

Paulen took a step forward, just one. “She’s not innocent, but she’s not the worst of them either. Funny how the world always makes examples of the ones who falter rather than the ones who plan.”

Ron turned to him, he could feel something raw flickering across his face. “You think she deserves a second chance?”

Paulen paused, then gave a small shrug. “I think… people make mistakes when they’re scared. When they feel unseen. When they believe no one’s coming to save them.”

Ron exhaled, slow. “She tried to make it right. She tried to help after. But no one sees that part.”

Paulen didn’t smile. But his expression shifted, not in comfort, but in validation.

“Maybe they need to be reminded,” he said quietly. “Maybe Potter needs someone close to him. Someone he trusts.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know if he trusts me. Not like he used to.”

Paulen gave a quiet hum. “Then make him remember.”

Ron rubbed at his temple, weariness creeping in behind the fury. “It just shouldn’t be this hard to save someone.”

“No,” Paulen agreed. “But the right things rarely are.”

He stepped back, nodding once in deference before moving toward the door.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said, already half-vanished into the corridor.

And then, just before the door closed: “We’re not supposed to give up on the people we love.”

Click.

Ron sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

He didn’t know if Claire could be saved.

But he couldn’t stop trying either.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The examination room at St. Mungo’s was too cold, too sterile for Draco’s liking.

He reclined, barely, grudgingly, on a floating diagnostic bench that hummed beneath him, his robe open to the waist to expose the bruising still faded across his ribs. Violet marks lingered like ghosts of hexes past, refusing to be entirely dismissed.

Astoria stood beside him, wand in hand, her expression composed and infuriatingly professional.

“This could’ve been done at home,” Draco muttered. “Preferably in silk sheets. With tea.”

Astoria raised a brow without looking at him. “You refused to sit still yesterday.”

“I can be persuaded,” he said dryly, waggling a finger at her. “With the proper incentives.”

“You’re not getting a lollipop, Draco.”

From her seat against the far wall, Hermione rolled her eyes, before she returned to biting her nails.

Potter stood by the window, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass where the clouds gathered like something waiting. His hair was tied back and Draco couldn’t help but wonder whether he ever cut his hair.

Hopefully not before Draco had a chance to run his fingers through it.

Astoria ran a diagnostic sweep over Draco’s ribcage, the wand emitting a soft, even hum. “Three ribs bruised, but your wound is safely healing,” she said. “Another day or two. And no more dramatics in Diagon Alley.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Draco replied. “Lecture the idiot who elbowed me.”

Potter looked up at that, eyes narrowing. “It was a reflex.”

Draco tilted his head toward him, grinning in satisfaction at having riled him enough for a reaction. Harry glowered when Draco stuck out his tongue.

“I think you can ease off of the pain potion now, Draco,” Astoria tsked, but put in a new prescription for it anyways.

Silence settled over them. Though it was not the comforting kind, but the kind that resonated with anxiety, with anticipation and question.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he drawled finally. “Hermione. Spit it out.”

Hermione startled slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re vibrating,” he said, arching a brow. “And Potter’s staring holes into the sky. Something’s clearly festering.”

Potter stiffened. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Draco interrupted, then turned back to Hermione. “I’d rather know before the pain potion wears off.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she began carefully, “about the Hallows.”

Draco made a noncommittal noise. “Of course you have. What a thrilling and unexpected turn.”

Hermione ignored him. Her gaze stayed fixed on Potter. “You still have all three.”

He didn’t answer.

“The cloak. The stone. The wand,” she continued, softer now. “If you could use them...”

Potter swallowed. “Hermione—”

“Just listen.”

He did.

She stepped closer, her voice low but steady. “You think being Master of Death means something you’ve failed to understand. But maybe it’s not about control. Not about evading death. Maybe it’s… about invitation. About facing it without fear.”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

Hermione’s next words came with a quiet gravity, as if saying them aloud would bind them in the air.

“I think you need to summon it.”

Draco sat up straighter, grimacing as he adjusted. “Summon Death,” he repeated flatly. “As in, call it like a bloody owl?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “There are precedents. The oldest stories talk about Death as something personified—an entity that can be called, bargained with, seen. Maybe not in a form we understand. But still… summoned.”

Potter stared at her, disbelief blooming behind his eyes. “Hermione…this isn’t a myth we’re deciphering for fun. You want me to talk to Death?”

“Isn’t that the goal?” Her eyes didn’t waver. “Then maybe you’ll finally understand what it wants from you.”

A thick silence followed.

Draco let out a breath, glancing at Potter with something between exasperation and caution. “You’ve done worse,” he muttered. “Though for the record, I vote no on letting it inside the house.”

Potter ignored him. “And if it doesn’t answer? Or if it does and it—what? Takes someone else instead?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “But I think it’s already circling. The more you deny it, the more it lingers.”

Potter exhaled, dragging a hand over his face and looking handsome while doing so.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have taken the full potion, Draco thought.

Chapter Text

Nights were difficult for Harry.

Too many thoughts buzzing around like trapped bees, dripping with anxiety, pooling into restless half-sleep and half-dreams that never quite let go. So, he had started gravitating to the game room in the afternoons. It was old-fashioned and vaguely musty, but the couches were surprisingly plush, and the tall windows framed the rain-slicked gardens in a way that made the manor feel less like a cage.

Minnie was currently engaged in a heated debate with Rosie over the correct way to greet a unicorn. Politely, with a bow and firm voice, Minnie insisted. Rosie argued for sugar cubes and compliments, preferably about their manes.

On the settee before the fire, Malfoy was explaining something to Hermione about French ward architecture—again. Far too enthusiastically, and with only half his usual sarcasm. The firelight made his pale hair glow gold instead of silver, and for a flickering second, he looked almost angelic. Almost. Domestic.

Harry didn’t trust that image any more than he trusted Malfoy’s sudden interest in decorative wards.

Across the room, Albus and James sat cross-legged on the carpet, hunched over the worn wooden Ludo board. The colors were faded, the edges warped with time and moisture, but it was a favorite among the children. Even if they never played it properly.

“No, you have to be blue,” Albus said, firm with the righteous logic of an eight-year-old. He spun the board until the blue square pointed directly at James. “You’re blue.”

James frowned, already holding the yellow pieces. “But I always play yellow.”

Albus gestured emphatically at his brother. “But you are blue. So you should be blue.”

Harry chuckled to himself and leaned back into the sofa cushion. Just children. Just a game. Familiar. Safe.

“What do you mean,” a voice from the door asked, low and inquisitive, “‘you are blue’?”

Harry startled upright. He hadn’t even heard the man enter.

The Dark Lord stood just inside the threshold, framed by the heavy paneled door like a shadow. He was dressed plainly, almost elegantly in dark slacks, a gray turtleneck that didn’t belong in any century, and a long robe that still glistened faintly with rain.

His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes, red, always red, were fixed on Albus with the kind of focused interest Harry had seen only in documentaries about wildlife. On a falcon just before it struck. Or a snake stalking a mouse.

Albus blinked up at Voldemort, entirely unfazed. “Because he’s blue today.”

Voldemort stepped further into the room, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Not looming. Not yet. But present in a way that shifted the air. “You see colors on people?”

Albus nodded solemnly. “Not always. Just sometimes.”

“Indeed?” Voldemort asked with a smile that could almost be mistaken as kind if it weren’t for the interest burning within his eyes. “And what color am I?”

“Red.” Albus shrugged, as though it were obvious. “Your eyes are red. So’s your tie. And your magic feels red…dark red. Like cherries, or Liverpool’s triccos.” He nodded solemnly, as if that settled the matter.

Voldemort remained utterly composed. If anything, he looked… intrigued. Engrossed, in the way one might be when discovering a new and unexpectedly brilliant spell.

“And do you believe colors have meaning?” he asked.

Albus nodded again, earnest as ever. “They have feelings. Red’s sharp. Important. Alive. Like spells. Like you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He should say something. But Albus was glowing, cheeks pink with pride.

And Voldemort hummed low in his throat. “An elegant observation.”

Albus puffed up, clearly delighted by the praise. “Thank you. Minnie says it’s weird, but I think some people have colors in them. And yours is definitely red.”

“Do you always see colors in humans? Or just wizards?” Voldemort finally asked.

Albus thought about that, his brow knitted and lips pursed. “Not always. Some are brighter, some have none. Papa’s is green.”

“Interesting,” Voldemort hummed, eyes gliding to Harry’s as though trying to see what Albus did. Harry bristled under the scrutiny. “Green,” he echoed, almost thoughtfully. “Like envy? Or the forest?”

“Neither,” Albus said, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Papa’s green feels… like home. Like being safe.”

Something in Harry’s chest tightened.

Voldemort didn’t look away. “And Draco?” he asked, as if the question were part of a game only he and Albus were playing.

Albus tilted his head toward Malfoy, who, Harry noticed, had gone very still beside Hermione.

“Silver,” Albus said easily. “Like moonlight. Or something you’ve buried and forget you needed.”

Malfoy blinked. “You’re an unnervingly poetic child.”

Voldemort smiled. Not wide, but enough that Harry felt his stomach lurch.

“And me?” Rosie asked, grinning now, unicorns forgotten. “What color am I?”

Albus glanced at her, as though this were far less interesting. “I suppose you’re orange. Like chaos.”

“Perfect,” she declared proudly.

“Do the colors mean anything beyond your impressions?” Voldemort asked, his tone casual, but Harry could feel the possessiveness beneath it. Curiosity sharpened to a point.

Albus hesitated. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel people’s colors and know what they’ll do next. Or what they’re hiding.”

“Really?” Voldemort asked softly, returning his gaze to the boy.

Albus didn’t flinch. “You hide a lot.”

A pause. Long and reverberating.

“But not from us.”

That was it. Harry’s breaking point. Because Voldemort was leaning in, just slightly, not like a man speaking to a child, but like a dark wizard fascinated by an artifact he would learn to turn dark. And Albus—brilliant, bright, trusting Albus—was letting him.

"Voldemort. A word." Harry’s voice came out low, clipped, shaking just enough to betray the panic crawling up his spine. He stood and strode into the tearoom without waiting to see if he would be followed.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“Stop looking at them as if you’re wondering what they would taste like with cranberry compote and rosemary potatoes,” Potter snapped, his voice sharp enough to surprise even himself, it seemed. “Or how you can take advantage of them next.”

Tom’s expression didn’t waver. “I would wonder no such thing,” he replied smoothly, his tone carrying the same detachment as if they were discussing the weather.

“No?” Potter challenged, his eyes narrowing. “Then what are you plotting?”

“They are my children,” Tom said, the words slipping out with an unsettling certainty, as if he were stating the most obvious truth. “I am simply invested in their thoughts.”

Potter spluttered, his face flushing with a deep, angry red that made Draco wonder if he might actually keel over right there in the sitting room. The atmosphere shifted abruptly, like a storm cloud rolling in, making Draco wish to Disapparate on the spot. Or, at the very least, melt into the floorboards.

“Your—” Potter’s voice cracked, his pitch shooting up several octaves in disbelief. “Your children?!”

Tom remained unnervingly calm, his gaze steady, and his composure unshakable. When he merely nodded in response, Draco felt a surge of panic and embarrassment rising within him.

He glanced around the room, desperately searching for something, anything, heavy enough to knock some sense into his husband’s thick skull. A candlestick, a bookend, a vase…hell, even a heavy cushion would do.

“Certainly,” Tom continued, his tone still as casual as if he were discussing the inevitable march of time.

The sheer audacity of his words left Potter gaping like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process what he had just heard. Draco couldn’t blame him.

“They sprang from my soul as much as yours,” Tom went on, his voice carrying an air of self-assuredness that made Draco whimper internally. There would be no reasoning with him now. “They are my heirs, as much as yours. And the late Ginevra Weasley’s, I suppose.”

“Tom, for Salazar’s sake, shut up,” Draco groaned, feeling a desperate urge to physically restrain his husband before he said something even more catastrophic. He briefly considered dropping to his knees in a dramatic display of pleading. Anything to stop this conversation from spiraling further out of control.

Potter’s face was a mask of fury and incredulity, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Your heirs?” he repeated, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. “My children are not your heirs, Tom. They are mine. Mine and Ginny’s.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, as if considering Potter’s words with mild interest, like a professor listening to a particularly misguided student. “And yet,” he began, his voice taking on that maddeningly calm, silky tone, “they carry a piece of me within them. A part of my soul, intertwined with theirs. Does that not make them, in some way, ours?”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Draco muttered, burying his face in his hands as the situation continued to deteriorate. He glanced at Harry, who looked as if he were about to explode, and then back at Tom, who seemed completely oblivious to the emotional landmine he had just stepped on.

“You can’t just—” Potter struggled to find the words, his voice cracking with emotion. “They’re not… you don’t… you don’t get to claim them like some… some artifact!”

Tom’s gaze flicked to Draco, as if seeking validation, but Draco furiously shook his head, feeling like he might give himself whiplash. Tom, of course, chose to ignore his advice entirely.

“They are not artifacts, Harry,” Tom said quietly, his voice now a low, almost soothing whisper, as if he were trying to comfort a frightened child. “But they are tied to me, irrevocably, by the very essence of our beings. And whether you accept it or not, they are as much a part of me as they are of you. And I will treat them as such.”

Potter’s breath hitched, his fury momentarily giving way to something darker. Something wounded. “They’re not yours,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re my children. I won’t let you take them.”

Tom’s expression softened, though his words remained firm. “I do not need to take them, Harry,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding. “They are already mine, as are you, my Soul.”

Draco winced, half-expecting Potter to launch himself at Tom in a fit of rage. But instead, Potter just stared at Tom, his shoulders heaving with every labored breath he took.

“Is he always like this?” Potter asked, the question directed at Draco, as if searching for some semblance of sanity in the madness they had found themselves in.

Draco exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that spoke volumes of his own weariness. “You have no idea,” he muttered, and Tom grinned as though he had just won an argument of great importance.

“You mention anything about this to the children, and you are dead,” Potter said, his voice low and deadly serious. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you think about their heritage. You say a word, and I promise you, Voldemort, you’ll find out what eternity in limbo really feels like. The Unbreakable Vow be damned, I will come for you.”

Tom’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or the thrill of being challenged. “Your threats are noted, my Soul,” he replied smoothly, his voice carrying that familiar, infuriating calm. “But rest assured, I have no intention of causing unnecessary distress to our children.”

Draco winced at the casual way Tom said ‘our children’, as if the possessive had always been there. He opened his mouth to defuse the situation, but Potter beat him to it.

“Just remember what I said,” Potter warned, his voice still simmering with anger. “They’re kids, not pawns in whatever twisted game you think this is.”

Tom’s smile softened into something more contemplative. “They are far more than pawns, Harry,” he said, his tone gentle. “They are part of us, part of the future. And I have no desire to harm what I seek to protect.”

Potter looked as though he wanted to argue, to refute Tom’s claim, but instead he let out a frustrated breath and stepped back. “For their sake, I hope you mean that,” he muttered, turning away as if he could physically distance himself from the conversation.

Draco glanced between them, between the coiled tension in Potter’s shoulders and the maddening calm in Tom’s eyes. “Well, then,” he said lightly, lifting his wine glass in mock toast, “here’s to not traumatizing the kids, yeah? I think we’ve all had enough of that for one lifetime.”

“Fuck you both,” Potter hissed—low, venomous, and entirely without ceremony. Then he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, not toward the gaming room, but somewhere deeper in the manor. Somewhere else entirely.

Draco blinked. “Where are you going?”

Potter didn’t slow, didn’t even look back. “Summoning Death,” he shouted, voice echoing down the hall. “In your fucking living room.”

The silence that followed was almost comical.

“At least he finally will,” Tom murmured.

Draco slumped into the armchair with a sigh. “We’re going to need stronger wards.”

~~~~~*~~~~~

He hadn’t really meant the living room, but it still felt good to yell it.

“Right,” Harry muttered, wiping his clammy palms against his jeans. “This definitely looks… appropriately ominous.”

And it did.

The attic was a perfect tableau of foreboding. Dust hung thick in the air, catching the dim light that filtered through the wet cracks in the roof.

Shadows stretched long and jagged across piles of discarded dark artifacts and forgotten relics, their edges softened by cobwebs that clung stubbornly to every corner. The faint creaks of the aging wood underfoot made it all feel uncomfortably theatrical. Exactly the kind of setting one might expect for a summoning.

“Brilliant,” he mumbled under his breath.

Harry cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and forced himself to speak with more authority than he felt. “I accept the Hallows. I accept my role as the Master of Death.”

The flickering flames cast long, wavering shadows across the room. The air grew heavy with the scents of beeswax and smoke, curling upward like a whispered incantation.

He didn’t think that had done it when he felt the exact same as he had before.

Harry stepped back, surveying the arrangement with a mix of apprehension and determination. The Hallows lay before him, the cloak folded neatly, the Elder Wand gleaming faintly in the candlelight, and the Resurrection Stone resting in the center of it all like a silent sentinel.

He frowned, stepping closer to the meticulously drawn circle of salt on the dusty attic floor. “I accept the Hallows,” he said again, his voice louder this time, bouncing faintly off the rafters. “I accept my role as Master of Death.”

The silence that followed was deafening, as though the very house held its breath in anticipation. Or, more likely, in ridicule. Nothing stirred. No cosmic shift, no ominous shiver down his spine. Just stillness.

“I accept the Hallows,” he repeated, irritation creeping into his tone. “I accept the role. Master in Death. Master of…ugh, damn it, what am I doing wrong?”

Nothing. No flicker of movement, no strange hum of power. Just the steady sound of his own breathing.

Finally, frustration boiled over. He threw his arms up, his voice cracking with exasperation as he shouted into the void. “Damn it, I am the Master of Death! Come here! Right bloody now!”

The response was immediate and disorienting. The air shifted around him, thickening like a tangible presence pressing against his skin. Gravity seemed to dissolve, and for a fleeting moment, Harry felt as though he was suspended in space and time, untethered from reality. A warm breeze swept through the attic, carrying with it the scent of earth after rain, of endings and beginnings.

Then came the voice. Soft, melodic yet carrying the weight of eternity. “Well, that’s one way to call me.”

Harry froze, his heart stuttering in his chest.

A woman stood within the circle of salt, her form radiant yet undefined, as though she were both present and intangible. Her hair was a cascade of shifting hues, dark as the void one moment, shimmering like starlight the next.

Her face was a paradox, neither old nor young, neither soft nor sharp, her features impossible to pin down but undeniably beautiful. Onyx eyes, deep and endless, locked onto his with an intensity that rooted him to the spot.

“I am not a dog,” she said, one brow arching in mild amusement. Her voice shifted as she spoke, alternating between the lilting cadence of youth and the steady resonance of age.

Harry swallowed hard, his tongue thick in his mouth. This was Death? She wasn’t the Dementor, the looming specter of fear he’d imagined but something… gentler. Something ancient and soothing.

Yet utterly commanding.

“I…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, feeling foolish under her inscrutable gaze. “I didn’t know how else to—”

“To summon me?” she finished for him, her tone teasing but not unkind. She took a step forward, out of the ring of salt. “All these years, and you never thought to call. And yet here you are, shouting into the abyss like a lost child.”

Harry bristled, his frustration bubbling back to the surface. “I’ve been trying to figure this out for ages. If you’re Death, why didn’t you just—”

“Appear?” she interjected smoothly. “Because, my Sunshine, you had to call me. And, well,” she gestured around the attic with a faint smile, “this… display… finally did the trick.”

Harry’s gaze darted to the candles, the haphazard symbols, and the scattered salt. “This worked?”

“No,” she said with a laugh, her voice echoing like a soft chime. “But your tantrum did.”

Heat crept up Harry’s neck, he felt like a schoolboy caught doing something absurdly naïve. “Right,” he muttered. “So… what happens now?”

Death tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that felt like sunlight through cracks—illuminating every fractured, hidden piece of him. “That depends,” she said, her voice carrying a curious blend of softness and inevitability, like the first notes of a song that had always been playing. “Why did you call me, Harry Potter?”

“So that I can become the Master of Death,” Harry said, his voice steady despite the faint tremor of doubt in his chest.

Her lips quirked into something between a smile and a sigh. “You already are,” she said simply, her dark, fathomless eyes gleaming faintly as though catching light that wasn’t there. “A mother’s love is powerful, but it can only cheat me so many times before something changes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry blinked, thrown off by her bluntness. “Then why don’t I feel… powerful?” he asked, his frustration seeping into his tone. “Why don’t I feel like anything’s changed?”

“You don’t feel powerful?” she echoed, her voice curling around the words like silk threading through thorns. “How curious. I would argue that you are already extraordinary. Magnificent, even.”

There was something in her tone, not mockery, but not flattery either, that made Harry hesitate. “If I’m so extraordinary,” he pressed, “then what does being the Master of Death actually mean? What can I do?”

Her gaze deepened, like staring into an ocean with no visible bottom. “What do you think it means?” she asked.

Harry floundered, the question unraveling something uneasy inside him. “I… I guess… power over life and death?” The words stumbled out of him, vague and hesitant, as if they weren’t sure they belonged to him.

Death exhaled a low, melodic laugh, as though amused by the simplicity of his answer. “No, Harry,” she said, shaking her head in a motion so fluid it seemed like a whisper of air had passed through her. Her hair shifted with her, an undulating veil of shadow and starlight. “That is the domain of the Fates. And believe me, they guard it jealously.”

Harry frowned, the threads of frustration tightening again. “Then what is it? What’s the point if I can’t even decide who lives and dies?”

She stepped closer, her form flickering faintly at the edges like a candle in a draft. “It isn’t about control,” she said. “It’s about presence. You are not here to command; you are here to accompany. To be a bridge between what was and what will be. You guide those who falter. Whether they stumble back toward the living or move onward to my realm.”

“A guide?” Harry’s voice sharpened, frustration curling into disbelief. “You’re saying I’m just… what? A comforting hand to hold?”

“If that’s all you choose to be,” Death said with an air of quiet certainty. “But I would call it something more. You are a light in the dark for those who can’t see. A protector when there is nothing else. There is no greater strength than offering solace in a moment of fear.”

Harry bristled at her calmness, the weight of her words making him feel small. “But I can’t change anything. I’m powerless.”

“You misunderstand,” she said, her voice softening, not with pity but with understanding. “You are not powerless. You are the one who stands at the edge of the storm. You are the anchor when the world crumbles. That is not weakness, Harry. It is purpose. The Master of Death is not a ruler; they are a guardian.”

Her words hung in the air, pressing against the walls of Harry’s uncertainty like a tide lapping at a shore. He wanted to argue, to demand something more tangible, more powerful. But there was something in her gaze, something unspoken, that made him fear arguing with something unmovable.

Her smile deepened, enigmatic and laced with something Harry couldn’t name. She crouched gracefully, picking up the shattered remains of the Elder Wand from the floor. The way her fingers closed around the fragments was almost reverent, though her voice betrayed none of the sentiment. “A pity, though. This would have made you more powerful.”

Harry watched her with wary curiosity. “It’s broken,” he said, immediately chastising himself for stating the obvious.

“I can see that,” she replied evenly, her tone neither teasing nor dismissive. The weight of her gaze lifted to him briefly, sharp as a blade and soft as dusk. “But broken things can be mended, Harry. Even the most powerful among us sometimes need help.”

She straightened, the pieces of the wand balanced delicately in her palm. With a faint whisper of movement, her other hand passed over them, her fingers weaving an intricate dance through the air. A shimmer, faint as starlight, crackled between her hands, and Harry could feel the room grow heavy with something ancient and profound.

The fragments fused together seamlessly, the wand glowing faintly before returning to its familiar texture. She held it out to him, her onyx eyes meeting his as she spoke with quiet gravity. “But understand this: I will only do this once, Harry. Break it again, and the responsibility of mending it will fall on you.”

Harry stared at the wand, reluctant to take it. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why fix it?”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance,” she said simply. “Even wands.”

Slowly, Harry reached out and took the wand, its familiar weight settling into his hand like it had never left. His throat tightened, the gravity of the moment pressing against him, but he couldn’t find the words to thank her.

She turned, her form flickering faintly at the edges as though the room couldn’t fully contain her presence. As she began to fade, Harry’s voice broke the silence, halting and uncertain. “Wait! How… how is Ginny? Is she okay over there?”

Death paused, her head tilting slightly as she turned back to him. Her expression was almost wistful, a bittersweet smile curving her lips. “Oh, Harry,” she murmured, her voice softer than the rustle of leaves. “I don’t watch over the living.”