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Chapter Text

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The Forbidden Forest seemed frozen, its trees standing like silent witnesses to the young man's last steps. Every stride he took felt like the end of a chapter he had never asked to begin. It was as if Fate had laid out this path for him long before he could understand it, long before he could fight it. There was no fear in him anymore, only resignation. He had already given so much; his childhood, his innocence, his very soul, and yet it was never enough.

In his hand, the resurrection stone was now just another bitter joke. It couldn't bring back the years he had lost or the future he would never have. It couldn't make things right. And now, for the sake of a world that had never really been his, Harry Potter was going to sacrifice the only thing he had left to give. His own life.

A life cut short for the greater good.

The circle of Death Eaters stretched on, their black robes and masks melting into the shadows. But Harry moved on, numbness settling deeper within him. He was no longer afraid.

Reaching the middle of the forest, he finally came face to face with Voldemort. The Dark Lord's eyes were fixed on him with a twisted glee that turned Harry's stomach. Voldemort was savoring this, while Harry felt nothing in response. He was drained, his soul too battered to feel anger or fear.

He was just... tired.

This was the end.

It had to be.

Voldemort's voice crept through the night, cold and triumphant, “Harry Potter... the boy-who-lived, will no longer be.”

Harry barely heard the words, barely heard the incantation that had doomed him since he was a baby. He didn't flinch. He didn't struggle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The world did not end with a blaze or a flash of pain.

It simply ceased to be.

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When Harry opened his eyes, he was enveloped in light. There was no ceiling, no sky, just this vast luminous space. He blinked, disoriented, his thoughts slow to catch up with the strange, surreal calm around him. This wasn't the forest and this wasn't the walls of Hogwarts.

As his eyes slowly adjusted, Harry began to make out shapes, vague and blurred, like half-formed thoughts: King's Cross Station, but it wasn't the one he knew. This place was almost too perfect, too untouched. The station was bathed in an ethereal glow so peaceful it felt like a dream he wasn't sure he wanted to wake up from.

He sat up and, for the first time, Harry felt lighter. It was an unfamiliar sensation, almost disorientating, as if he could float at any moment. As he stood, enjoying the serenity of the surroundings, a familiar figure emerged from the soft glow.

Dumbledore.

The old wizard walked towards him, his robe shimmering softly. Those blue eyes, usually filled with wisdom and gravity, now were shining with a warmth that seemed to be directed at his heart. His smile was also both caring and soothing, as if the weight of his own responsibilities and worries have finally lifted.

“Harry,” greeted Dumbledore gently.

“Is this...?” Harry looked around confused, “Am I... dead?”

“Not quite,” Dumbledore replied, ”At least, not yet. This place... is what might be considered a crossroads, a place between life and death." He gestured toward the white space, “A moment of rest, before a choice is made.”

Harry's heart raced.

“I was ready to die. This was supposed to end.”

“And yet here you are,” Dumbledore replied proudly, ”You have shown such courage and grace, Harry. I am deeply proud of you.”

Harry blushed and looked a way when his gaze fell on something behind Dumbledore, his stomach twisting at the sight. There, not far from where he had been standing, lay a small, shriveled form. It was a pitiful thing, cowering like a frightened, wounded child would.

The Horcrux. The last fragment of Voldemort's shattered soul.

He felt irresistibly drawn to it so he approached hesitantly, his hand twitching as if compelled to reach for it.

“Harry,”, Dumbledore advised, “you must not touch it. If you reach for it, you could bind yourself to it, and to a fate you cannot foresee.”

But Harry couldn't move away. His heart sank at the sight of the creature, so small and defenseless and he thought of Tom Riddle, the orphan who had never known love. Could he have been different? Was this disfigured, pitiful form the manifestation of his loneliness and lack of love?

Deciding to ignore Dumbledore's warning, Harry knelt down beside the Horcrux. And he thought that perhaps carrying that piece of soul inside him for so long had created a bond that could never be truly broken. For this reason, he reached out and gently took the Horcrux in his arms. The moment he did so, the creature whined and cradled against him, its deformed body seeming to relax.

Dumbledore watched Harry with a look full of tenderness and sadness, “Harry... You truly embody the essence of Love, my child. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it. But by doing this, you cannot return to the world you left.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat, “What do you mean?”

Dumbledore smiled, “You made a choice, a selfless choice, as you always do. By taking the Horcrux in your arms you have of your own accord linked your fate with it.”

Harry murmured in shock, “But... the war, my friends…”

“You did everything you could, Harry. You gave them a chance for a better future. Now you have the chance to move on and find peace. You can find your parents, Sirius, Remus... everyone you've loved and lost.”

Harry's heart ached at the thought of his family. But then his gaze fell on the creature he held in his arms, a small, broken form huddled against him.

“Or,” Dumbledore said softly, ”you can choose to take the train once more. Let Fate be your guide. There may yet be a path for you, Harry."

Harry's mind raced as he stared at the Horcrux, it was one of Voldemort's soul fragments after all,

“Could Tom have changed?” asked Harry, his voice hoarse, “If someone had loved him... if he had been given a chance, could he have been different?”

Dumbledore's eyes glittered, “Everyone deserves love, Harry. But not everyone understands it or have the courage to embrace it. Tom's path was tragic but I do not know if anyone could have saved him. But the power of Love, as you know, works in mysterious ways.”

Harry continued to stare at the Horcrux, the creature seemed to be seeking his warmth, its tiny hands clutching at him almost desperately. He thought of the Tom Riddle he had seen in the Pensieve, a lonely, angry boy who had never known love, who had been abandoned.

Maybe... just maybe, things could have been different.

Harry finally made his decision,

“I'm taking the train,” Harry whispered.

Dumbledore smiled, pride in his eyes. “Very well, Harry. Let Fate be your guide. Whatever happens, you'll face it with the courage and heart you've always had.”

With the little Horcrux in his arms, Harry headed for the gleaming train and as he crossed the threshold, the world around him dissolved into mist.

And then, there was darkness.

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Chapter Text

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Slytherin Manor loomed under the night sky, its stone walls rising above the ruins of the castle of one of Hogwarts' founders. Tonight, the moon illuminated the estate with an unusual silvery glow.

Inside, Tom Riddle sat in his office, the youngest Minister of Magic, still working despite the late hour.

The room was elegant and meticulous, in the image of its owner. A polished wooden desk sat in front of an enormous window, allowing moonlight to flood in and cast ghostly shadows across the floor. Two walls were lined with bookcases filled with books, ancient scrolls and meticulously organized documents.

The silence was absolute, interrupted only by the soft rustle of parchment as Tom's quill rhythmically scratched across the paper. On this night, the ethereal moonlight was the only witness.

As Tom was reading a report on the progress being made on the construction of a pre-Hogwarts school, an explosion of light filled the room, momentarily blinding him. His instincts took over and he leapt to his feet, wand drawn, but as quickly as it had appeared, the light vanished, leaving two unconscious figures on the floor.

He froze, as his gaze fell on one of the intruders: Harry Potter-Riddle. His husband. The man who had disappeared without a trace five years ago.

Harry's face was as he remembered it, attractive, but not quite to his taste, as he preferred more androgynous beauties. His sharp jawline contrasted with his delicate long eyelashes and full lips. His olive skin seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight, while his raven-black hair, longer than Tom remembered, fell in soft waves to his neck.

For a moment, he could only stare at him. Relief should have washed over him at seeing his husband alive and well. Instead, a deep anger surged within him, rising like bile in his throat.

Five years.

For five years, he had been building a life without the constraints of their marriage, a life where he no longer had to play the perfect husband. And now, in an instant, everything was falling apart with this unexpected and unwanted return. Tom found himself pointing his wand at Harry, his grip tightening, his knuckles turning whiter with rage as memories of his original plan surged back to him.

His initial plan had been simple: marry Harry and secure the perfect position within Albus Dumbledore's circle, one of the most powerful and influential wizards in the world. The old fool’s support was crucial to his ambitions; with Dumbledore's backing, nothing and no one could stand in his way.

Love? The very idea was laughable. Harry had only been a pawn in a much larger game. He never cared about him. How could he?

Harry was too naive, too blind, clinging to the ridiculous belief that he had any affection for him. His infatuation had been painfully obvious, and he had used it to his advantage, playing the devoted husband only when it served his purpose, always careful to give just enough and nothing more.

When he had disappeared, it had been an inconvenience, but only for a short time. He was forced to play the role of the grieving husband, maintaining the facade of a man tormented by the sudden absence of his beloved. But behind the mask, he had felt nothing.

No loss, no grief.

In fact, he had come to love the freedom it brought him. Without the need to keep up appearances, he was free to pursue his ambitions undistracted by a marriage he'd never wanted, and enjoy the company of whoever he pleased without constraint. But now Harry was back. Alive and unconscious on the floor as if the last five years had never happened.

How dare he come back now? How dare he think he could simply reappear and disrupt his life?

With every passing second, his thoughts darkened and his anger swelled like a storm ready to destroy everything. He could kill Harry. It would be so easy. There was no one here but him and his house elves. No witnesses, no interference.

They had been bound by magic, their marriage never truly broken. That unbroken bond was the only reason Dumbledore and Harry's loved ones still clung to the hope that Harry might be alive. But if he ended it now, if he cut that bond permanently, he would finally be free.

Free to marry his lover, someone who, unlike Harry, shared his ambitions and possessed a beauty that stirred his deepest desires. The mere thought quickened his pulse, sending a low, dangerous shiver up his spine.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, and his magic coiled around him like snakes, feeding off his emotions. He could do it, a simple spell, and it would be over.

No more complications. Just freedom. 

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relish the image of Harry lying lifeless at his feet, the man who had always been nothing more than a nuisance. But something stopped him. His gaze, once fixed on Harry, shifted to the small child in his arms. Tom's breath caught involuntarily. The child was an almost perfect replica of himself.

He told himself it could not be, a trick, perhaps, an illusion. Yet magic spoke louder than reason. In the marrow of his bones, he knew. This boy was his blood. The shape of his nose, the freckles he had as a child, his nose and the arch of his eyebrows reminded him of a younger version of himself. Yet there was also something undeniably Harry about this boy, his unruly hair, his long eyelashes and a softness in his features that gave him an air of vulnerability. The sight struck Tom like a physical blow, and the fire of his anger flickered, momentarily muted.

This was something he had never wanted. He never wanted a child, never wanted to be bound to Harry in such permanent way. Yet here was undeniable proof, the child was, without a shadow of a doubt, theirs. Tom felt a twist in his chest that he couldn't quite identify.

How could Harry not only disappear, but take his child, his heir, with him? Even he recognized the value and the importance of an heir.

The idea that Harry had hidden something so important from him only served to fuel him, which was intensified by a sense of helplessness. He was recognizing that he was losing control of the situation, a feeling he hated more than anything.

Tom sank back in his office chair in a daze, his eyes fixed on the figures on the floor. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice anything else, until a pop broke the silence.

Dobby, as he did every evening, appeared in the room with a cup of tea. But upon seeing the scene before him, the elf's eyes widened in shock, tears streaming down his face as he cried out,

“Master Harry!” his voice trembling, rushing to Harry's side.

“Quiet,” said Tom in a voice as cold as ice, “Put them in Harry's old room and not a word to the other elves.”

Dobby, still sobbing, nodded and rushed to follow his orders, gently levitating them before disappearing with another pop.

Tom remained where he was, sitting in his office and staring at the empty space where Harry and the child were.

His husband's return might have complicated everything, but Tom Riddle always knew how to turn a situation to his advantage. He couldn't lose control. He would never.

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Chapter Text

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The caress of the sun gently pulled Harry from his slumber. With a groggy sigh, he shifted under the covers, feeling a silky-soft fabric brush against his fingers. It was the first time in five years he had woken up feeling this comfortable. The last time had been at the Burrow, on their final morning before setting out to hunt the Horcruxes.

Five years of living in fear, sleeping outdoors in all kinds of weather, made this rare moment of comfort feel almost unreal. Instinctively, he knew he was in an unfamiliar place.

As the warmth of the sun filtered through his closed eyelids, Harry slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light. The first thing he noticed was that he no longer had his glasses on, yet he could clearly see the sun's glow through a large window. Harry blinked, and as his confusion faded, the details of his surroundings became clearer.

The room was spacious and exuded opulence, yet it still maintained a sense of comfort. The walls were terra cotta and the furniture was made of dark wood. He was lying on a large four-poster bed at the center of the room, decorated with carvings of various magical creatures.

The bed was covered with soft, silky fabrics in warm green tones, and curtains of the same color framed the windows. An elegant fireplace stood opposite the bed, flanked by two doors, and facing it was a small sitting room.

The entire room felt comfortable but lacked any personality, as if it were waiting to be photographed for one of the Muggle home décor magazines his aunt loved so much.

Harry groaned softly as he tried to work out what had happened, his body stiff like he’d been stuck in the same position for hours. As he straightened up, he felt a weight beside him and then noticed the small body curled up next to him.

A child.

A boy.

The child was huddled against him, wrapped around him like he was his lifeline. But even with his face half buried in the pillow and the characteristic chubbiness of childhood, he bore an eerie resemblance to the few photos he had seen of young Tom. 

But before Harry could figure out what he was seeing, the door opened. His eyes snapped to the entrance, and his muscles tensed at the sight of a silhouette he knew all too well. Standing in the doorway was a strikingly handsome Tom Riddle, in his mid or late twenties.

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Tom stood at about 6'3", significantly taller than Harry, who was 5'10". His height accentuated his lean, muscular body.

He wore a black shirt that accentuated his chest and waist, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his pale, veined skin. His black pants fell gracefully over his shoes, creating an overall look that was both elegant and casual.

Tom’s black hair was neatly styled, with a few loose strands framing his face, contrasting sharply with his alabaster skin. However it was his eyes that captivated most. They were like molten lava, a dark, shimmering brown streaked with dark red. They had a cold, calculating gleam, as if they could see right through him.

Tom's lips curled into a smirk that was anything but warm, more the calculated gesture of a cold-blooded predator.

In a strangely calm voice, he broke the silence that seemed to go on forever, “Well, hello.”

“It is quite something to see you again after five years. How fortunate to finally have my husband home.” Tom’s gaze rested briefly on the child sleeping beside Harry. “And it seems you have brought a new member into the family.”

Despite the sarcasm, Tom’s tone remained cold, and his eyes betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Aren’t you going to explain to me where you have been?”

Husband.

Harry's mind stopped at that word. Facing two Toms of different ages was surreal enough, but hearing the grown-up, supermodel version declare that they were married completely short-circuited his brain. He tried to clear his thoughts, but they spiraled in circles.

If the events at King's Cross had been real, then by taking the Horcrux in his arms and boarding the train, he had made a choice that led him to an alternative world, one where he seemed to be married to the man who had tried to kill him since he was a year old, the same man who had murdered his parents.

This realization made his breathing quicken, but remembering Hermione's meditation lessons, he forced himself to steady it.

Based on what Tom had just said, his other counterpart had disappeared without a word. Something drastic must have happened to make him flee, something Harry probably would have done himself if he had been married to the Dark Lord. 

As Tom’s impatience became evident in his narrowed eyes and clenched fists, Harry took a deep breath and decided to gamble on amnesia.

“I don’t know.” 

Tom's eyes narrowed further. “You do not know?”

Harry shook his head, feeling the weight of Tom's gaze. “No. The only thing I remember is the need to flee. That's all.”

Silence stretched, and the air grew heavy as Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. “How convenient for you not to remember anything. Do you expect me to believe you?”

With a swift, threatening movement, Tom stepped closer and forcefully grabbed Harry’s chin, startling him. He struggled to free himself, caught in his unflinching, painful grip. Tom leaned in, his eyes seeming to glow, and his voice dripped with venom.

“Do you expect me to believe your amnesia? Do you think I will take you back after all the trouble you caused me ? That coming back with this bastard will make me melt and open my arms to you?”

The intensity and violence of Tom's words, laced with disgust, ignited Harry's anger. Overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions, his magic reacted instinctively, striking Tom and forcing him to release his grip as he stumbled backward.

Breathing heavily, Harry's voice dripped with raw hatred, “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

Tom was caught off guard, unfamiliar with the disdain reflected in Harry's eyes. The contrast between Harry's sheer disgust and the adoration Tom was used to was jarring.

Harry continued, his gaze resting on the still-sleeping child beside him, “If you don’t believe me, I don’t care. The only thing I want is for my son to be safe.”

With a wry smile, Tom turned on his heels and he paused just long enough to address Harry one last time,

“Do not even try to leave this room,” he said in a soft, dismissive voice.

Harry's eyes lit up with defiance, “You can't keep me here like a prisoner!”.

Tom's hand was on the door handle when he glanced at Harry with his unsettling dark brown eyes, his smirk widening,

“Watch me,” he said, and with one last amused glance, he left the room.

The door slammed shut, and Harry heard the unmistakable sound of magical locks. He approached the door and tugged on the handle, but it was firmly sealed. Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened for any sign of Tom's footsteps, but only silence greeted him.

After a few minutes of pacing to calm his racing heart, Harry returned to the bed, where the child was tossing and turning, his eyebrows furrowed as if searching for something, or someone.

Concerned, Harry studied the boy. The only reason he could think of for the child not waking, especially after all the commotion, was that perhaps he needed to regain his strength after getting a physical envelope. But the question was, will he remember his life before or after becoming a Horcrux?

As he settled back beside the child, Harry knew he had to stay calm. It was clear that Tom despised him, and he couldn’t risk staying here if it meant putting the child in danger. With the boy snuggled up against him, Harry closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief respite. The child's soft, rhythmic breathing was oddly soothing, offering him reassurance in his decision.

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Chapter Text

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Tom's smirk disappeared. Jaw tight, frustration simmering, he headed for his office.

The memory of those emerald eyes, which seemed to burn with hatred and anger, lingered in his mind. Harry had changed more than Tom had anticipated, and the realization left him with a discomfort he couldn’t quite bring himself to face.

As he approached the large double door, a small pop interrupted his thoughts. Mindy, his head house elf, appeared at his side,

“Master Lucius has arrived. He awaits you in your chambers.”

Tom paused, his expression hardening.

He had completely forgotten it was the weekend, when, as always, Lucius was expected to visit. However, he wasn’t prepared to share anything about Harry’s reappearance, especially not with him. Lucius’s jealousy toward Harry had always been a source of amusement, but Tom didn’t have the patience for it now.

“Very well,” he said curtly, dismissing Mindy with a wave of his hand. Turning on his heel, he strode toward his apartments, trying to quell the storm brewing inside him.

Pushing open the door to his private sitting room, he was greeted by the sight of Lucius lounging on one of the sofas, the picture of effortless Malfoy elegance.

His pale blond hair was tied back with a leather band, though a few strands had slipped free, framing his sharp, aristocratic features. His pale skin caught the daylight streaming through the tall windows, giving him an ethereal glow, while his thin, pink lips curled into a faintly sly smile.

As always, Lucius was impeccably dressed. A fitted black shirt hung just to his narrow waist, accentuating his lean frame, while perfectly tailored black pants clung to his legs. The ensemble was finished with smooth, polished shoes made of black dragon skin: classic, understated, and entirely Malfoy.

“Well,” Lucius said, his grey eyes gleaming as he looked up at Tom. “You look positively livid.”

Tom didn’t answer right away, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied Lucius’s posture. There was something about the way Lucius carried himself that always irritated him. He seemed to know that his beauty and aristocratic status made him desirable to almost everyone, Tom included, and wore it with an air of certainty.

His androgynous looks added to his allure, with sharp features and an almost delicate frame that contrasted strikingly with Harry’s raw, unpolished beauty. He wondered if his attraction to him was simply because he was the exact opposite of his husband.

Lucius knew he held some type of power over him. Tom, for his part, allowed it, if only because it suited him.

For now.

“What's the matter?” asked Lucius.

He had to send him away, with Harry and the child so close. However, it was hard to ignore his seductive presence, especially when his mood was already so volatile.

Lucius arched a pale eyebrow at his silence, shifting on the sofa in a way that revealed his collarbones. Tom’s gaze was immediately drawn to the way the light caught on them. The tension in his body deepened. He needed to release it somehow, and Lucius was offering himself on a silver platter.

“Maybe I can help,” he said, his voice smooth.

Tom’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lucius always seemed to know exactly when to push and when to back off. He had a knack for reading his moods, and today was no different.

“I don't have time for this,” Tom said, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

Lucius's lips twitched into a smile, “You never have time,” he replied teasingly, “Yet you always find a way to make time for me.”

Tom moved closer, his eyes darkening as he loomed over him, “You are playing a dangerous game,” he warned, his voice low and husky.

Lucius grinned wider, his grey eyes gleaming with delight, “I like games,” he murmured, leaning back further on the sofa and exposing his throat, a gesture he knew would only taunt him further.

Tom’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and forcing him to lie back with enough pressure to make him gasp.

Lucius had always enjoyed their dynamic, the way Tom’s dominance asserted itself when they were alone, something he didn’t usually relish. With Tom, though, it was different.

Tom was unique.

His authority, charisma, and beauty stirred something inside Lucius, undeniably enticing him. There was a power in Tom that made him his equal, despite the differences in their bloodlines. Lucius, a noble, should never have considered a half-blood his equal, but Tom being the heir of Salazar Slytherin changed that.

Ever since their days at Hogwarts, Lucius had wanted him. Tom had always been the most coveted and regarded as the “brightest wizard of his age.” And the Malfoys never settled for anything less than perfection.

“Maybe you should rethink testing me now,” Tom whispered, his face inches from Lucius’s, his breath warm against his skin.

Tom knew he should send him away, but for now, he let go, losing himself in the familiar rhythm of Lucius's body. Yet, even as he surrendered to the moment, his mind remained elsewhere, lost in a gaze as deadly as the Avada Kedavra.

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Tom allowed his body to rest for a brief moment on Lucius’s trembling form before withdrawing and standing up. The sudden movement took Lucius by surprise, causing him to open his eyes, still clouded with pleasure.

With a tired but satisfied smile, he asked, “What's going on?”

“You have to leave,” he said firmly, catching him off guard.

“Why?”, Lucius inquired, his voice laced with mild disbelief.

“I have too much work to do,” he replied plainly.

Lucius’s face flushed with indignation, his expression quickly shifting to a neutral mask, “Your work never kept me from being here, nor has it ever dismissed me as if I were some insignificant trifle,” he said, his voice meant to be cold, but he could hear the hurt beneath it.

Drained and irritable from a sleepless night, he answered with cool detachment, “Did you have another reason for coming here?”

Lucius fell silent. This was the first time Tom had disrespected him like this.

Seeing the shock in his expression and not wanting to undo all the progress he had made, Tom sighed and softened his demeanor. Leaning in, he kissed Lucius deeply, the kiss meant to convey an apology.

“I have way too much work to do and I know I would not be good company,” he murmured.

Still a little hurt, but reassured that Tom’s anger stemmed from stress, Lucius rose from the sofa. His pale, glistening body, slick with sweat, caught the light, a sight he knew to be intoxicating. He moved gracefully towards the bathroom, but paused as he sensed Tom’s gaze lingering on him.

With a seductive smile, he turned to face him, “Would you perhaps find time to join me for a shower?”

Tom’s eyes burned with desire, “I suppose I can spare you a moment,” he replied, following him into the bathroom.

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Tom sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in nothing but simple black pants. His chest, still glistening from the long shower with Lucius, was defined by firm muscles, even more visible under his pale skin. Moles dotted his body, a few scattered across his neck and shoulders, while a thin line of dark hair trailed from his belly button downward.

His bedroom was minimalistic and impersonal, with walls painted a deep, muted green that cast a quiet, subdued tone over the space. The dark wooden floor gleamed, and a large rug stretched out beneath the bed, warming his feet. One wall was mostly made up of large windows, opening onto a balcony that overlooked the estate. Heavy, dark curtains framed the view, but the soft afternoon light filtered through, creating an atmosphere of quiet, controlled power.

Exhausted from his intense sessions with Lucius and the sleepless night before, Tom collapsed onto the bed. As he stared at the ceiling, his mind once again ran through the situation.

He knew he couldn’t keep Harry and the child hidden forever. The thought of killing Harry had lost its appeal once he realized the child was his. For a fleeting moment, he hated himself for hesitating. It would have been so easy, a curse and then silence.

But as he stared into the memory of that small body curled against Harry’s side, something twisted inside him. It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t guilt. It was something far worse: a raw, feral need. Possession. The need to keep what was his. 

His heir.

His son.

The idea of having a proper family brought memories of a past he had buried long ago, memories of being as young as his son, yearning for someone to take him in, to rescue him from the orphanage. That longing for a family had now materialized.

He now had an heir, securing the preservation of his bloodline and the continuity of Salazar Slytherin's legacy. Of course, he could always kill Harry, but the notion of depriving his child of a parent, something he had once wished for himself, unsettled him. It was a feeling he couldn’t quite place, and it made him resent Harry for stirring it up.

Resolved to manipulate the situation to his advantage, Tom decided to exploit Harry’s supposed amnesia. He would let the public believe they had been kidnapped, a plausible story, given the enemies he had.

As for the child, that would be easy enough to manage. He would present himself as a devoted husband who had kept the pregnancy secret to protect his family, a perfectly reasonable explanation, considering the complexities and danger of male pregnancies.

If any investigation was needed, he would put Rabastan and his team of Aurors in charge. Finally, Tom allowed himself to relax. The weight of his thoughts slowly faded as sleep began to claim him, his mind settling into quiet darkness.

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Chapter Text

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Harry woke up only to find big mismatched eyes staring at him, one green like his own, the other black with faint flickers of red. He could simply stared back, caught between disorientation and wonder.

Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of them. Harry’s heart pounded unevenly in his chest as he took in the small face staring up at him, a face that was unmistakably a blend of two people. And seeing the child's eyes sent a shiver through him, part awe, part fear of what his life had become. This child was part of him. Harry's throat tightened painfully.

He needed to find a name for him. A name untouched by the past, untouched by the dark ties that had created him.

A small, uncertain thought brushed the edge of his mind, maybe, in this world, he had parents who were still alive. Maybe he had a mother he had never lost. But even if that were true, it didn't change what he felt now. He needed to honor the woman who had loved him so fiercely she had given everything for him. His mother, Lily.

For a moment, his mind was blank, until a name rose up like a whisper from somewhere deep inside. Lilius.

He didn't know exactly where it came from, only that it felt right. A tribute to his mother, who had embodied Love itself. It was a way of striking a blow against the man who, in another world, had taken her from him. By uttering this name, Harry reclaimed something precious, something long lost since his mother's death. It would be a reminder, of the strength of love, of the price of sacrifice.

The child, was lying there quietly, his tiny hand curled tightly into Harry's shirt, as if afraid he might disappear if he let go. His small body was tense, pressed close against Harry's side as if he were seeking comfort and safety.

Harry exhaled slowly, heart squeezing painfully at the raw trust in that gaze. He lifted a hand carefully, brushing a few messy strands of black hair from the boy’s forehead, whispering words without thinking.

“It’s alright... I’m here.”

Lilius didn’t speak, didn’t even nod, but he pressed closer, burying his face into Harry’s chest when he moved slightly. The connection between them was already there, trembling, but so deeply rooted it felt inevitable.

Harry didn't know if it was the remnants of magic or something else entirely, but instinct told him that it didn’t matter. This child needed him. That was enough.

A soft pop broke the stillness.

Dobby appeared, balancing a tray of food with practiced ease, the dishes hovering gently under a quiet levitation charm. It was so natural, so typical of Dobby’s care, that Harry barely registered it at first. But when Dobby caught sight of him, the elf froze mid-step.

The tray floated harmlessly to the nearest table as Dobby’s wide green eyes filled with tears. He stumbled forward, his hands trembling violently, and a soft, broken noise escaped his throat.

“Master Harry...”

The raw emotion in that small, familiar voice struck Harry deep. He sat there, stunned, as Dobby approached hesitantly, wringing his hands in a gesture so achingly familiar it made Harry’s throat tighten.

“You... you are alive... and you have... a little one...” Dobby choked out, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks.

Something deep inside Harry eased, a knot he hadn’t realized had been weighing him down since arriving in this strange, terrifying world. Dobby was here with him, alive and well.

Harry blinked hard against the stinging in his own eyes and managed a shaky, genuine smile.

“Thank you, Dobby,” he said, voice low and rough with emotion.

Dobby sniffled noisily, beaming through his tears. “Dobby is always here for Master Harry. Always!”

The small body against him moved, Lilius tightening his grip on Harry’s shirt, clearly sensing the rush of emotions. His wary gaze flickered between Harry and Dobby before he relaxed slightly, reassured by Harry’s calm presence.

With one last watery smile, he gave a bow and disappeared with a soft pop, leaving them alone once more.

Harry shifted slightly, murmuring soothing words, ready to coax the boy into eating something, when a subtle change in the air made his skin prickle.

He looked up sharply.

Tom stood in the doorway.

He was dressed impeccably, black robes falling elegantly around his tall frame. His molten dark eyes were fixed on them with a gaze that revealed nothing.

Harry felt his whole body tense, shielding Lilius instinctively with his own. He watched as Tom's gaze flicked briefly to the child, then back to him, and something in the room seemed to tighten.

Tom knew they were awake before even stepping into the room, the silent spell he had placed alerting him the moment Lilius stirred.

But Tom hadn’t expected... this.

As Tom's gaze lingered on them, Lilius suddenly let out a raw, desperate wail, not just a cry, but a broken sob that tore through the room’s silence.

The sound was so raw it seemed to slice through the air like a knife. The kind of heartbreaking sobbing only a young child could summon, the kind that could rip apart even the hardest heart. His small hands clawed at Harry's shirt in frantic, incoherent desperation, his whole body convulsing with the force of his terror. It was a primal, instinctive panic, as if the mere presence of Tom had awakened some deeply buried nightmare he couldn't even name.

It ripped through Harry like a blade. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, gathering Lilius tightly against him, as if he could shield him from everything with sheer will alone. For a moment, Harry could hardly breathe, the child's fear resonating so deeply inside him it felt like his own, a pain sharp and physical, a need to protect so fierce it hurt.

Every trembling sob from Lilius was a blow, each one stoking a fury that made Harry want to lash out, to drive away whatever had caused this, even if that something was the man standing in the doorway.

Harry’s mind raced, could it be possible that the child carried some memories from his past? It seemed impossible... and yet, he couldn’t shake the thought. Maybe something had stayed with him. But he hoped it wasn't the case, he didn't want him to carry that weight. 

Holding Lilius even closer, Harry shot Tom a hard, feral glare. His magic crackled violently under his skin, barely restrained, an instinctive roar of protectiveness rising in every fiber of his being.

"Go away," Harry snarled, his voice low, shaking with the force of his fury. It was not a plea but a command. He’s mine, that look screamed, clear and burning with hatred.

For a moment, Tom stood frozen, something flickering in his gaze. His jaw tightened, his hands flexed at his sides, and he stared at Lilius, at his own son, sobbing and shuddering in terror of him. The sight gouged deeper than Tom had expected, an ugly wound festering with humiliation and a bitterness he could neither understand nor accept.

But pride hardened his features, masking the flicker with icy disdain. His lips pressed into a thin line, and when his gaze turned back to Harry, it was sharpened into something cold and venomous, the blame firmly laid at Harry's feet.

In Tom's mind, the conclusion was obvious: Harry must have poisoned the child against him. How else could his own heir, his own blood, recoil from him so instinctively?

Without a word, Tom turned and disappeared from the doorway, the soft click of his boots fading into silence. The door closed, but the weight of his presence lingered long after he was gone.

Harry exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against Lilius’ hair. He whispered soft, nonsense words, sweet nothings, promises he barely understood himself. "You're safe," he breathed, over and over, voice shaking. "I've got you, little flower... no one will hurt you..."

The boy's sobs had softened into broken little sniffles, the desperate gasps of a child too exhausted to keep crying but too frightened to fully let go.

Harry felt each trembling breath against his chest, the small hands still fisted in his shirt, and something deep inside him twisted painfully. He held Lilius closer, as if to absorb his fear, to hide him from a world that had already hurt him.

Whatever happened next, he knew one thing for certain:

He would protect his child, with everything he had.

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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

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Ministry of Magic, Atrium. 10 Am.

Tom stood on the raised platform of the Atrium. His posture was impeccable, his movement deliberate and his expression remained calm, composed and charming. The Atrium had no decorations, no theatrics. Only the gold-etched insignia of the Ministry behind him, and a thin line of Ministry-approved reporters facing forward.

He waited until every camera was pointed forward, until the silence was heavy enough to hold what came next. Then he spoke,

“I’ve called you here today to share personal news. News that I never believed I would have the privilege to speak aloud.”

His voice was even and carrying an emotional cord, “My husband, Harry Potter-Riddle, has been discovered.”

He let the words sit in the air, just long enough. The intake of breath from the crowd was audible, but no one dared interrupt.

“Five years ago, my husband vanished without a trace. Despite every search, we found no sign of him. And yet, a few days ago, he reappeared. Unconscious and injured, within the boundaries of our private estate.”

“We do not know what happened to him. We do not know where he was taken or how he survived. What we do know is that he came back with no memory of his life... or what was done to him.” 

He stopped before giving the most shocking news for them,

“In the early days of his disappearance, many speculated. What few knew then, and what I share now, is that my husband was pregnant when he vanished.”

A few reporters gasped, and the frantic scratching of quick-quotes quills increased,

“We chose not to make that public at the time. We all know that male pregnancies can be high-risk. We did what we believed would best protect my spouse, and our unborn child.”

“My son, Lilius, survived.”

This time he let the pause stretch to let them feel the weight of it. By saying my son , he wasn’t just announcing a child, he was announcing an heir. A firstborn, a boy. The kind of thing that settled bloodlines and closed mouths. No one could deny what he was anymore. 

“Out of respect for their health and safety, I delayed this announcement until they were stabilized. I am not seeking attention or wanting to entertain speculation. I am simply sharing the truth.”

Tom glanced once toward the cameras, wearing a smile that looked almost soft, the carefully measured expression of a man playing the part of an overjoyed husband and a proud father. The image he wanted them to remember.

“My family is recovering. And we ask you to respect our privacy. Therefore, I will not be answering any questions.”

A beat.

“Thank you.”

Then he stepped away from the podium, robes trailing neatly behind him.

The moment broke the stillness of the room and the Atrium erupted into noise. Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping in a frantic chorus, quills scratching wildly as questions were shouted over one another. But Tom didn’t slow and a line of Aurors held firm, blocking any attempt to follow him. 

He didn’t look back. The statement had been made and that was all they were getting.

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Tom sat behind his desk, legs crossed, one hand resting flat on a sealed file. The office was quiet, insulated. His secretary, Evan Rosier stood across from him, adjusting the cuffs of his robe.

“Well?” Tom said, not looking up.

“They’re still scrambling,” Rosier replied, voice smooth. “Some are trying to Floo their editors to have the story be published first.”

Tom nodded once, slowly, “And the reaction?”

“Exactly what we wanted. Shock and sympathy. For now, no one asked for details.”

Tom let the silence sit for a moment, “Keep the Daily Prophet in line,” he continued. “Their first edition will set the tone.”

He glanced at Rosier now, expectant, fingers tapping once against its edge, “Send an owl to Records. I want the name registered today.”

He blinked, “Under what name?”

A pause.

“Lilius Salazar Riddle,” Tom declared, his voice was quiet and certain.

Rosier nodded once, but before he could turn to leave, he added, “Reschedule everything for the rest of the day.”

Rosier blinked, caught off guard. “Everything?”

“Yes.” Tom stood, smoothing the front of his robes. “ If anyone complains, I trust today’s announcement will give them reason to reconsider.”

He didn’t argue and Tom moved around the desk, already walking toward the door.

“I am going back to the manor,” he said. “Black will try to Floo through since an owl was sent just before the press conference started”

Rosier raised a brow, “You’re expecting him to come storming through the fireplace?”

Tom’s mouth curved, “I’m expecting him to try. But I’ll be the one who decides when he’s allowed through.”

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Harry woke to the sound of a tray being set down. The scent of warm toast and eggs drifted through the room.

Dobby stood near the fireplace, fussing over the plates, “Breakfast, Harry sir” he said softly, “For you and the little one.”

Harry blinked against the light. The room was warm in the morning, fire still crackling low and Lilius was still asleep, one arm locked around him like a lifeline.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake him, then he looked at Dobby. “Will you sit with us?”

Dobby froze, “Me?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Please, sit and eat with us.”

The elf looked one breath away from tears, hands pressed to his chest, “Yes, Mister Harry, sir,” he squeaked, already clambering up onto the ottoman, trying not to drop a fork in the process.

Harry turned his attention back to the boy in his arms and brushed the hair from Lilius’s forehead.

“Little flower,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

Lilius stirred, his mesmerizing eyes fluttering open. The moment he moved to stand, the child’s arms wrapped around his neck, holding on tight. 

Harry carried him to the armchair and sat down, the child settling onto his lap as if he had always belonged there. Slowly, he fed him small bites of fruit and toast, which the child ate without complaint or a single word. Dobby nibbled a corner of toast beside them, still misty-eyed. 

After a while, he glanced down, “He needs to shower.”

Dobby perked up immediately, “Mister Tom had a wardrobe prepared for him, sir! Just yesterday!”

Harry blinked, “A wardrobe?”

The elf nodded eagerly, “Yes, sir! All new clothes!”

He hesitated, “Could you bring something, then?”

“Right away, sir!” Dobby said, and vanished with a pop .

He looked down again. Lilius’s heterochromia eyes stared up at him like he was the only thing in the room worth looking at. He exhaled slowly, brushing his fingers along the boy’s temple.

Dobby returned with a soft pop , arms full of neatly folded clothes. With a quick snap of his fingers, the clothes vanished from his arms and reappeared neatly placed on the bathroom counter. 

“All set for the little one’s bath, sir!” Dobby beamed.

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Dobby.” Then he rose with Lilius still in his arms.

“I’m going to help you shower,” Harry murmured gently near his ear, “ It’s alright.” Lilius didn’t answer, but he leaned even more in his arms, his forehead brushing Harry’s jaw.

The bathroom was larger than expected, white marble floors, gold fixtures, and towels folded like robes in a boutique. The bath was already filled, steam curling upward in soft tendrils.

He eased Lilius into the water with care. The boy didn’t flinch, only watched him with those strange eyes like he was watching the sun rise after a long night. Every time Harry’s hand moved, to rinse, to scrub gently behind his ears, Lilius leaned into it without a sound.

When it was over, he dried him off with a thick towel and reached for the clothes Dobby had left. The fabrics were soft, clearly expensive, but the palette was muted: taupe, charcoal, cream, not a single splash of color.

The shirt was a fine wool tunic with subtle silver stitchings, paired with neatly pressed trousers and little dragon leather boots that fastened without laces. Everything fits perfectly, adjusting itself to Lilius’s body automatically. They didn’t look like something a child would wear. More like a miniature version of something Tom would put on himself.

He couldn’t do anything about it, at least not now.

Once dressed, Lilius curled back into his arms with practiced ease and they walked back to the bedroom in silence. But when Harry stepped through the doorway, he stopped cold. Tom was sitting in one of the armchairs, legs crossed. Dobby was nowhere in sight.

Instinctively, he pulled Lilius closer, shifting so his own body was between the child and the man across the room. His heart hammered, not from fear for himself, but for how the boy could react. But Lilius didn’t scream or cry.

He simply buried his face in the crook of his neck, small fingers curling again into the collar of his shirt. At this, Tom’s expression changed. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing, not in fury exactly, but something close. The anger was there, simmering beneath the surface, but there was something else behind it too. Whatever it was, it flickered across his face for only a moment before vanishing, like a crack sealing itself shut.

Tom gestured to the other armchair. Harry didn’t speak; he simply sat, Lilius still in his arms. 

For a moment, no one said anything.

Tom watched them. The child’s arms were locked around Harry’s neck, his back to him, as if even looking at him might break something. And Harry held him like something sacred, protective without needing to try. It felt like a mirage: tangible in the way it looked, but distant, inaccessible. As if the moment he tried to get closer, to touch it, it would simply vanish. Then he broke the silence, 

“The press conference is done,” he said before continuing nonchalantly, “Black is waiting in my office.”

Harry’s head lifted, the words landing like a rush of air and his heart beating fast, “He’s here?”

Tom nodded once. “He’s been informed you’ll see him. Alone.”

Harry’s expression shifted. His voice was calm, but every word was deliberate. “I’m not leaving Lilius.”

“He won’t be alone,” Tom said tightly. “I will be here.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, “We both know how that would go,” he replied. 

Tom didn’t answer at first, but he saw the flicker anyway. The tension that worked its way into his jaw and the way one of his hands tightened slightly against the armrest, like he was holding something back.

A beat of silence, then Tom nodded once, “Fine. But do not forget your role.”

He rose and left the bedroom without a glance. 

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